Tumgik
#because he had to stand there and watch dimitri die without being able to do anything
lysissisyl · 3 years
Text
A different world
This is the story I wrote for “The Goddess Messenger” zine.
___________________________________
The war had ended. Edelgard had only planned until then. Part of her probably didn’t even expect to survive it, at least not as Edelgard. Even if she won, even if she lived, the Emperor would have lived. She would have taken care of the reforms needed to truly reach her goals, she would have made sure no one ever faced what she had to face. She would have been the leader Fodlan needed, until she wasn’t needed anymore. Emperor and the justice they embodied. (She was born a rebel and she was now dealing with that herself, as ironic as it sounded.)
She was sitting in her study, a pile of unsigned documents to her right, the pile of the signed ones to her left definitely too high for the edge of dawn. According to her schedule, she was expected to sit there until lunch, reading letters, drafts of decrees and laws, spies reports, nobles’ complaints... She looked out of the window and sighed. It was such a nice day... In a different world, in a different life, she could have been having tea in the gardens with Byleth or seeing her laugh because she was putting too much effort choosing her outfit to go to the opera and wondering what flowers Dorothea would have liked the most. She shook her head. In another life she would have more probably been dead or in chains again. She shivered at the thought. Who knew, perhaps Dimitri would have ruled over Fodlan and people would have called her a tyrant. Byleth would have had a role in the church, under Rhea’s guidance. Another sigh. This wasn’t a different world, this wasn’t a different life. Luckily. She would have read and signed 3000 more boring papers to know she was going to see Byleth’s smile in the evening, the love in her eyes... She clenched her fists. What was wrong with her? She was prepared to walk that path alone, to fight alone, to sit in that study alone in the best scenario, to die alone in the worst. And now? Now she couldn’t stand an entire morning alone. No, she couldn’t stand an entire morning without Byleth. It wasn’t just about focusing. Of course her thoughts ran to her given the smallest chance. She was annoyed, but it was also comforting somehow. The problem was the tight knot in her stomach, the cold that made her shiver and shake sometimes, even with the fireplace just a few feet away. The problem was that painful feeling that made her crave for her voice, her smile, even just a moment of her presence. She felt like screaming. She signed another paper. Sure Ferdinand could call his school “the Von Aegir foundation for equal opportunities and enlightenment”. She took the paper back: maybe it would have been better to submit it to Hubert... Byleth would have found it funny. She laughed now. She wanted that laugh... She took the paper again, crumpled it in a ball and threw it in the fire. She could deal with one damn morning! But it was every morning. It had been every morning from the day she had realized Byleth had chosen to walk with her. And she rationally knew that didn’t mean they were going to be together all the time. She was totally fine with that. Each of them had things to take care of. She would have never asked anything like that. But...every time she wasn’t there, that feeling came back. And she hated herself for that. She could feel her eyes burning. Right, another thing that had changed. She remembered how to cry now. That didn’t mean she had any intention to. Luckily, because she heard the door opening a moment later. She hadn’t heard a knock, but she was...distracted. And Hubert didn’t always knock. Nor did Ferdinand. Or Caspar. Too many people didn’t fucking knock. But most of them weren’t up that early in the morning, except for Hubert, who could either be already up or not yet asleep. She sat straight on the chair, ready to discuss any urgency that had presented. To her surprise, it wasn’t Hubert coming in, but Byleth. “Weren’t you going to train? You love the training grounds at dawn, because they’re all yours. Did something happen?” But she was smiling. “Why are you here? We were supposed to meet for lunch.” Byleth slipped her weight on the other feet, pensive, then shrugged. “I missed you.” All the tears Edelgard had been holding came out, her solemn posture turned into stiffness, then breaking completely and letting her collapse on the chair and desk.
“El?” Byleth was confused. Emotions were still unfamiliar to her, something she struggled to unravel. She knew she had gotten better in those few months, but this reaction was something she couldn’t comprehend. Did she say anything wrong? Did she make Edelgard sad? She remembered crying when she was in pain, the day her father died and she remembered Edelgard crying when she thought she was dead. She moved carefully, sitting on the chair in front of her. “Did I cause you pain?” Edelgard’s eyes met hers, while she partially regained control. “No. No. You chase the pain away, my love. The pain and cold.” Byleth turned to the fireplace, already half standing, with the clear intention of starting a fire that was already going. Another small way to love her. But it wasn’t the sight of the fire that stopped her, it was Edelgard’s hand, grabbing hers. “Stay...” She was smiling, but there was a need in her eyes. She looked away an instant later and let go hesitantly. “Apologies.” “What for?” “I’m truly not myself today. Feel free to go back to your training and errands.” Byleth tilted her head in the way she often did when she was pondering something. “Why?” “Because it isn’t fair to as otherwise. It’s...selfish.” Byleth looked at her again, giving her another confused look. “But I want to stay.” Edelgard laughed, a small laugh, but her voice was clearly cracking again. No tears though, just her eyes sparkling for a moment. Then she looked at the papers and her attitude changed. Her posture stiffened, she grabbed the sheet on top and sighed. “Will you stay with me while I work then?” Byleth looked at her for a long moment. She was in control again, but she could see her lower lip tremble slightly from time to time, her grip on the paper a little too strong. In her mind she looked like an overzealous rookie who kept swinging their sword for days, until their hands were so in blisters they couldn’t even hold it anymore. “You need a break.” “I need to work.” “Is there anything urgent among those papers?” “If anything was urgent, Hubert would report it or bring the documents to me personally.” “Then you don’t need to work.” “I worked everyday from dawn to sunset since the war started. No, it’s been much, much longer.” “You definitely need a break.” “You’re not listening. I’m used to it. I know I can do it. I just need you here. I can’t waste an hour.” “I wasn’t thinking about an hour.” Edelgard smiled. “Then I suppose I can take a few more minutes.” “I was thinking about a day.” Edelgard froze. “A day?” Foolish. She couldn’t. She needed every minute to study and sign all those papers before the end of the day. She had responsibilities. She had...very intrusive thoughts of her and Byleth drinking tea in the gardens, eating cookies, chatting and smiling. It was such a nice day... Maybe it could be a different world, just for today... “El...?” It. Wasn’t. A. Different. World. “I wish it was...” “What?” “I wish it was a different world, a world I can spend the day with you, relaxing and having fun, drinking tea and laughing together. I wish, but I have to take care of it all, I must. I can do it now, so I must.” Another image came to Byleth’s mind. Edelgard dealing with reports during the war, messengers running back and forth, reports held by bloody hands, men and women and children risking their lives for words to reach her. She stayed up at night to read and study everything, send replies. Everyday she wasn’t fighting or studying strategies, she was reading and writing papers, the silent side of the war people always forget. Some days sleeping was a luxury she couldn’t afford, because someone else needed orders, because a new territory needed laws, because she had treaties and negotiations ongoing. She understood. “You can now, you can tomorrow. El, there won’t be a battle forcing you to postpone it, there won’t be an assassination interruption, a fire burning your documents down. “This is another world: the world you dreamed of, the world we fought for, the world we created together. The war has ended.” “The war has ended.” Edelgard repeated those words, as a reminder, as something to cling to. She felt lost. She had kept thinking, acting as it hadn’t, because she didn’t know what else to do. But the war had ended. “So...what now?” “Whatever we want.” Edelgard just stared back at her, the vastness in those words both beautiful and scary. Byleth could see it, she could feel it. “What do you want today, El?” An easier question. She still felt stupid answering. “I want to go to the gardens, enjoy the cool air, drinking tea and eating sweets with you.” Stupid. The first thing the mighty emperor could think of was tea and cookies, a child’s desire. “I’ll ask for everything to be prepared.” “Ask?” Edelgard raised her eyebrow. “This sure is a change. I was starting to worry a lot of people in the palace would have started complaining about not being able to do their job anymore.” Byleth giggled. “I usually prefer to do most things by myself, exactly like you do, but I told you, El: I want to stay.” She paused. “I’m still going to brew the tea myself, though. I have my limits.” Edelgard laughed.
Edelgard loved the way Byleth brewed her favorite bergamot tea. Ferdinand could go on rambling about times and temperatures as long as he wanted to (he sure did more than once), but Byleth had sort of a natural talent for making tea. If she wasn’t so rational, she would have said she could taste the love. She let her pour some in her cup, then watched her while she got some in her own. There was a calm, a comfortable calm in Byleth’s way of handling tea that had always fascinated her. There was a gentleness in her gestures so unusual for a mercenary... Now she knew that gentleness well. She smiled, a silent thank you, took a cautious sip. It was hot, but not enough to burn. She could feel the warmth spreading on her body, forcing her shoulders to relax. Byleth’s tea was the most similar thing to a hug she knew. Her voice was as gentle and warm now. It made her feel like purring.  “I understand, El.” Byleth leaning forward, fingers gently caressing her cheeks, another kind of warmth. Soothing... Edelgard closed her eyes for a moment, absorbed by that lingering feeling. Then a serious note joined the sweet kindness in Byleth’s voice and she focused on it again. “New beginnings aren’t easy. Even when they are nice, even when things change for the better, even when there is hope and happiness awaiting, when you reach them after a long fight...new beginnings aren’t easy. Your mind has to learn to believe, it has to learn to let go, to relax. There is a difference between knowing that things will be alright and feeling it. “You saw me running to you, sword in hand, because I heard a noise, even if I knew the palace was safe; the other day I almost hit a kid playing a prank on me in the streets, then I had go back to the market, because I hadn’t bought anything that wasn’t dry and easy to preserve while traveling. My brain momentarily forgot I have a home now. And...sometimes, when my emotions are stronger than usual, when you smile to me in the morning and I’m still half asleep and my heart races... I freeze for a moment, because I forgot it bites now. I do understand, El.” She did. She always did... “Can we do this every day?” Childish. “A free day?” Byleth teased her. She blushed and stuttered. “You know that’s not what I meant. The tea. A moment for tea. A break. Sharing.” “We can, El. This or anything you desire. You don’t need to plan. You can, but you don’t need to. You can think about what you want everyday. Tea, walking in the gardens, a game of chess, sitting in front of the fireplace, hand in hand. Just something you want, every day, small precious things.” “Small precious things...and days off when I need them...reaching out when I need you...” She bit her lip: she didn’t mean to say it out loud. Byleth smiled. “Good girl, El. And remember that when you fought for everyone’s future you fought for yours too.” Edelgard wanted to say ‘thank you’, but it didn’t seem enough. She moved slowly, resting her head against Byleth’s chest, listening to that beating heart... A new beginning. Together.
37 notes · View notes
plumoh · 3 years
Text
[FE3H] farewell, i love you
Rating: T
Word count: 2114
Summary: Felix keeps dying; Sylvain can't allow this to happen. / Time loop.
Note: AO3 link. Major character death, ambiguous ending; originally written for Sylvix week 2020. I love time loops and the tragedy of loving someone :’)
“I’m not leaving you.”
“I know.”
“Leaving you is the last thing I’d do. And if you’re the one who leaves, I’ll follow.”
The smile he sees, stretching his lips, isn’t a happy one; it’s flat, barely a twitch, not reaching his eyes and making his face glow with resignation.
“Of course you’d say that. You always do whatever you want.”
***
Sylvain dunks his entire head into the river and wishes he could wash away the bloodied memories from his mind as well.The freezing water does nothing to draw him out of his torpor—it keeps him stranded on a single thought he will never be able to discard, haunting him until the day he dies.
Two hands grab his shoulders and yank him backwards, forcing him to furiously blink to get the water out of his eyes. He shakes his head, sending more droplets all around him like he was a drowning dog.
“Damn it, Sylvain, stop that!” Felix growls.
Sylvain grins and flicks more water in Felix’s face. Felix punches his arm in retaliation.
“Ow, you’re no fun, Felix,” Sylvain whines.
“What do you think you were doing? Are you trying to freeze your brain?”
Felix is frowning, arms crossed over his chest, radiating tension and unease. He has been nothing but on edge for the past weeks. It’s surprising he’s still able to hold a conversation with anyone, and without spitting vitriol and fire, at that—Sylvain is well aware of how Felix can get at this stage of the war.
“Well, if I freeze my brain I can’t have dilemmas over what I want to eat for dinner, and I think it’s very sad,” Sylvain says, tone light. “Oh wait, that means I’ll be able to think with my dick.”
Felix keeps glaring at him. He’s more stubborn, this time. It wasn’t so difficult to make him drop a subject, before. Sylvain rubs his neck, unable to meet Felix’s eyes (what kind of irony is this?).
“We’re marching on Tailtean Plains tomorrow, so I was cooling off,” he admits.
The weather has been terrible for the past month; even for Faerghus, the Great Tree Moon is considered a rather pleasant moon, with rays of sunshine lasting longer than a few hours a day. But this year, rain has been pouring, slowing their advance through the mud and the fog, grating on everyone’s nerves and chipping at their patience. Felix has been snappish and frustrated, not concealing his desire of looking forward to reaching their destination, and put the war behind them.
Sylvain knows this won’t end well. They haven’t engaged in battle yet, but he knows that it’s doomed.
Felix stays quiet for a moment, then lets out a shaky exhale. “You need to focus.”
Sylvain bursts out laughing, startling Felix and those who are bathing next to him.
“Don’t worry, there’s no way I’ll lose focus,” he says. “I can’t lose focus, not now.”
Sylvain directs a smile at Felix; he doesn’t know what he looks like, but Felix is staring at him, eyes wide and shining like he’s facing a complex problem that he can’t solve by swinging his sword at it, like he’s had the solution swept from under his feet at the last moment, and he can’t bring himself to think of another one. Sylvain tries his best to avoid putting this kind of expression on Felix’s face, so he aims at a bigger grin, but Felix stands up abruptly, and retreats to camp.
“Don’t lose yourself.” Sylvain thinks he hears as he watches Felix’s back getting farther and farther away.
The Tailtean Plains are drowning in a heavy rain that makes every step a struggle. They can’t see farther than two meters ahead; the sound of the rain blending with those of the weapons clashing, the soldiers yelling and the beasts howling create a cacophony ringing in Sylvain’s ears wherever he goes. Fighting in these conditions is pulling at his thin willpower to stay sane.
He spurs on his horse and doesn’t look anyone in the eye when he brandishes the Lance of Ruin to kill the Kingdom soldiers, like he was born for it. He paints the ground in red and cuts a path through those people he was once supposed to fight alongside with—he vaguely remembers his orders but he’s stopped listening to orders a long time ago.
Felix is like death itself on the battlefield. He’s a whirlwind of ferocity and grace, striking true with every thrust and never leaving an enemy alive in his quest for victory. He always looks forward.
Sylvain has the tendency to look everywhere except forward. That doesn’t mean he’s able to be on time.
He sees the archer notching an arrow at Felix’s back. Even on horseback, Sylvain won’t be able to reach him fast enough to protect him. His voice won’t carry far enough, and even if it does, it will be too late.
“Felix—!”
Felix’s body goes down just as Sylvain sees, on the other side, Dimitri approaching. Felix’s blood flows in-between the cracks of the earth. The rain on the Tailtean Plains drowns their screams and their blood and their tears.
Sylvain barks out a laugh, slapping a gloved hand on his forehead and dragging it down his face. Dimitri’s face is pinched, his gaze traveling from Sylvain to Felix, and from Felix to Sylvain. Ever so slowly, he readies his lance.
“There’s no fucking point,” Sylvain says, and the world goes white.
***
“Didn’t we establish that if you’re not strong enough, we can’t die together?”
“But Felix, you’re the one who’s too strong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? How can anyone be too fucking strong?”
“If you’re too strong, you leave me behind.”
***
This Felix is different. His words are still coated with poison and his swordsmanship is still impeccable, but he’s less subtle about his intentions. He might kiss Sylvain like he represents his entire world, he might whisper sweet nothings into his ear, and he might tell him he will protect him, Sylvain knows that someone else will always be his priority.
This Felix will drop his sword if he thinks this is the only solution he’s left with. He will run and cross the whole battlefield to fulfill his duty, to make sure he isn’t fighting in vain. This Felix is more transparent about his desire to change Faerghus, and to change Faerghus he needs to ensure that the right person sits on the throne.
Sylvain, in this universe, will always be second to Dimitri.
Gronder Field burns, swallowing corpses and ideals alike. Sylvain knew something would go wrong; he always knows when something will go wrong, but he never knows when something will go right. He watches as Felix moves towards Dimitri, like a flower drawn to its source of light, to fight alongside him.
This Felix forfeits his life and dies in Dimitri’s arms, because he believed in Dimitri.
Sylvain sinks on the ground, his forehead hitting the hard soil and smearing blood all over it, and he closes his mind.
***
“Don’t you think that sometimes we shouldn’t cling onto our principles so fiercely? It’s said that many people lose themselves to their ideals.”
“If they’re dumb enough to get killed because of stupid ideals, it’s their problem.”
“What if that ideal is growing old and dying in a bed with someone you love?”
“Is it Sylvain code for having sex?”
***
The first time Sylvain came face to face with Felix on the battlefield, on opposite sides of the war, he couldn’t bring himself to fight him.
Felix still died first.
***
Sylvain is letting his mouth devour Felix, pressing on his lips, on his jaw, going down on his collarbones then on his torso. He’s not stopping and he’s wishing this moment never ends, so that he will continue having Felix in his arms and not be forced to let him go. His hands are wandering and touching, caressing the skin of his back and of his thighs. The desperate and urgent nature of his moves don’t bleed into rough handling, though; Sylvain is careful and is treating Felix’s body like it is his personal sanctuary.
“Are you okay, Sylvain?”
Sylvain fears his words would transform into sobs if he speaks up. So he kisses Felix, relentlessly, absorbing everything from his scent to the curve of his mouth and the sounds his throat makes. He takes. He takes and takes, and stores it all into a corner of his mind, for him to assemble later as if he is piecing together the different parts of something that he can’t quite remember.
Felix responds to his kisses and touches, and stops asking questions. He’s become patient and less prone to lashing out—Sylvain knows this won’t help avoiding the inevitable threat looming over them.
Sylvain gets carried away by his worries and the comforting kindness he finds in Felix, and ends up being the weaker one, once again. He’s weak so he gets injured in his endeavor to protect Felix, because he’s not capable of achieving anything if it doesn’t involve his body, and Felix gets killed soon after when he’s protecting him.
***
“I...”
“You don’t need to say anything.”
“The future you envision... Am I included in it?”
“What kind of question is that? As if I could get rid of you.”
“It’s a promise, then? Living together, and dying together?”
“...It’s a promise.”
***
Felix follows Ingrid to join Claude’s class. Sylvain follows Felix.
Dimitri dies. No matter how tight Sylvain is holding Felix, no matter how pathetic he becomes as the days pass, he sees the way Felix is slipping away, drifting aimlessly without a purpose anchoring him to somewhere peaceful. Sylvain watches him slip between his fingers and disappear, going back on his word (he always goes back on his word, but he doesn’t remember, he never remembers), and leaves Sylvain behind.
All he can do is attach a memory of Felix on a sword he didn’t want.
***
When Felix gets deployed at Arianrhod, Sylvain begs Ingrid to switch place with him. She’s not pleased and neither is Dimitri, but they relent and tell him he has to be careful. Sylvain doesn’t answer them.
Their positions don’t allow them to fight side by side, so Sylvain spends their entire trip to the fortress telling Felix he loves him.
“You make it sound like we’re going to die.”
“I just felt the need to tell you I love you,” Sylvain says with a smile.
Felix snorts, but the curl of his lips is gentle and vulnerable, and he doesn’t resist when Sylvain pulls him into an all-consuming kiss. Sylvain feels himself breaking.
When he doesn’t see Felix or Rodrigue coming to back him up during the siege, Sylvain doesn’t bother ending the fight, exhaustion seeped into his bones, and he shatters the world.
***
“Do you think happiness is possible for people like us?”
“Everyone decides for themselves whether they can be happy or not.”
“Ah, so are you happy?”
“Maybe not now, but I’ll be eventually, probably. When the war ends.”
“Well then, we’d better survive so that you can find your happiness.”
“Yours, too. It’s a two-way street.”
***
Sylvain doesn’t believe in fate. He doesn’t believe in anything anymore. He’s a decaying soul inhabiting a body that won’t ever see the end of the war and the reconstruction of the world. Every fiber of his being has been pulled taut, and today is the day he snaps.
The Tailtean Plains wail and shriek. There is no energy left in Sylvain to continue this senseless battle with himself.
The glint in Felix’s eyes means he won’t back down. Good. Sylvain brandishes the Lance of Ruin and charges at Felix, summoning the power of his crest just as Felix makes his flash. The light of their crest is blinding and screeching. It’s wrong, so wrong, but Sylvain is tired.
Felix’s sword goes through the plates of his armor like ash, and Sylvain brings down his lance to pierce Felix’s flesh. Their gazes travel to look at each other, and Sylvain sees an entire world of possibilities in these molten eyes, but none of them will grant them what they are wishing for.
“It’s laughable, isn’t it...?”
Felix smiles weakly, and closes his eyes. Sylvain exhales slowly, finally feeling he isn’t racing against time anymore. It leaves him unsatisfied and empty, like he’s forgetting something essential, but he is free. His mind drifts elsewhere, and slams the door shut.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Felix wakes up in yet another body, a new promise brushing his lips; but these promises never amount to anything, because he’s forced to eventually break them.
10 notes · View notes
jtavington · 3 years
Text
SSAU - Edelgard’s defense
Yes, she could be quite comfortable here. It wasn't that different from her scraps of memory of Faerghus.
Faerghus. She had lived in a house a little like this in Fhirdiad when she and her real uncle had been exiles. They were never supposed to see home again to keep her safe. Edelgard shuddered. The last few weeks broke over her. Constance and Hubert were dead. She was alive, even though she had promised all of Adrestia that it was better to die than to fail in their glorious revolution. She was a cripple and didn't know whether or how much she could expect to improve. She had a false name, a false history, and worst of all a false marriage. She covered her eyes as best as she could with her good hand as tremors of trapped sobs overtook her.
Byleth knelt before her. "What's wrong?"
Edelgard grit her teeth. She had lost the ability to cry when she had watched her last sister die, but the tremors wouldn't stop. "What am I supposed do?" she managed.
"Well, you've had a long day, so I think it would be a good idea if you took a nap and--”
"No." She dropped her hand and forced herself to look Byleth in the eye. "What I supposed to do? You've rescued me from death and those blasted rings are around our fingers, Maria. We're halfway across the continent, sharing a house with a former diva and a criminal mastermind who despises me. You've moved heaven and earth to make sure I lived when I should have died. But everyone I've ever loved besides you is dead, we've left chaos behind us, and I can't use the bathroom on my own. What sort of life do you envision for us? Or was it just the guilt you couldn't stand? If it was, I assure you that everything those refugees said was true. You can run me through with a clear conscience."
The room fell silent. Edelgard's chest burned with the exertion of speaking so much. She and Byleth looked at each other. There were little lines around Byleth's eyes that hadn't been there five years ago. She didn't look like the second coming of the Goddess. She looked tired. She rose to lock the door before returning to kneel in front of Edelgard, “I suppose we do need to talk about it." She swallowed. "You don't think living is a good thing?"
"Not good enough." She wished she was younger, wished they were back at Garreg Mach with thousands of stars overhead, wished she was drunk on the belief that she had found one person she could tell her secret. "Not when the church and the nobility are stronger than ever and there's nothing I can do about it. I didn't drink the hemlock for your sake, Professor, but the dream I lived for, my oldest friend, and the woman I love are all dead. All that's left are you in the blood at my feet. I don't know how to move forward." And without that movement, she was nothing.
Byleth exhaled. "I didn't think that far ahead. I just wanted to change cruel fate. But I guess I've got to think, for both our sakes."
"I suppose you do."
"Then...tell me something." She swallowed. "How much of the Flame Emperor and the persecution and everything I saw during the war...how much of that was you?”
Edelgard blinked. Of all the questions Byleth could have asked... No doubt she was deciding whether Edelgard deserved mercy. Edelgard would not beg. She made her voice as even and clipped as her traitorous muscles permitted. "I hired Kostas to murder Dimitri and Claude. Retrieving the Sword of the Creator and faking an assassination attempt was Thales' idea, though I would have cheerfully used the sword if I'd been able. I told him to use Jeritza as he wished. I learned about Flayn's kidnapping after it had already happened. Truthfully? I was glad to see him blow up in their face. Everything I told you about Remire was true. It was an atrocity, and I was glad to see Solon die for it. They were my subjects.
"And Dad?” Her voice was small, like a child's. "You didn't...”
It would be easy to crush her hope, to play the opera villain and say she had planned it all. Just as easy as it would have been to let that Beast kill her. "I think that was Kronya's act of spite. Your revenge was a good excuse for me to get some of my own. The Holy Tomb... I needed the Crest Stones. Nothing, not even you or the Black Eagles were going to stop me."
"I see," Byleth said in the exact same tone as if this were an oral examination. "You needed them for Beasts."
There was no point in denying it. "I believed it necessary, considering the Alliance and Kingdom had so many Relics."
"Necessary?” Byleth whispered. "You saw what happened to Miklan and you believed it necessary? Nothing justifies that." Her eyes flashed and she gripped the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles turned white. "I'm sure we missed some. And they can live for a thousand years. You did that."
"Better that than failure. If the world were just, I might not have needed them. If I had had more power, I would have sent Thales to the eternal flames where he belongs long ago. But the church you love so much is worse than Thales. They control humans. They lied and said Crests were a gift of the Goddess and they kept lying.” Her vision blurred. They had made her believe Saint Seiros and the Goddess cared and would spirit her from the dungeons if only she prayed hard enough. "I wouldn't be surprised if they controlled what we know of the natural world."
Byleth flinched as if she had been struck. "You don't know that."
Edelgard thrust home. “But they might. They would have never let my reforms stand, and dragons live much longer than humans. I would have gotten rid of Crests without war, and I never would have had a chance without the Beasts and the alliances and everything else you find so distasteful.”
Nothing. Edelgard felt oddly light. She had given up any hope of being understood, but it felt good to make the case at long last. Byleth would do as she must.
"Thank you." Her face and voice were no easier to read than before as she stood. She looked down at Edelgard, appraising, and Edelgard found herself holding her breath. "I know what I want to do with you. You shed innocent blood, Edelgard. You made decisions for other kingdoms that you had no right to make. Your suffering and good intentions mitigate that. They do not justify it. What you did wasn't necessary."
Edelgard closed her eyes. So this was how her execution came.
"And I want you to prove it. I told you that your paralysis wasn't the end of your dream. I think that's true. Because it was always your drive, your desire for justice, your charisma that made you my favorite. The Edelgard von Hresvelg I remember would never give up." Her hand covered Edelgard's good one. "Prove to the world that Crests don't matter. I'll help you."
"How?" Five years ago, she would have given her weight in gold for Byleth to say something like that. She would have taken on the world if only her professor stood at her side. And that overawed teenager was still a part of her, as much as she hated it.
"Recovering would be a good start.”
7 notes · View notes
nicolewrites · 4 years
Text
my head, my heart, my heaven
more ot3. there can always be more ot3.
Rating: T Genre: Romance, Friendship Characters: Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier & Felix Hugo Fraldarius Words: 2,267
Felix and Ingrid check on Sylvain the night before the Resistance Army marches on Gronder Field.
AO3
“Sylvain.”
Sylvain’s head snapped up and he saw Felix standing in his doorway. Sylvain rubbed a hand over his face, brushing the sleep out of his eyes. He resisted the urge to yawn as Felix let himself into his room.
“Hey, Fe,” Sylvain said tiredly. “Can I help you?”
“Why are you still up?” Felix asked, folding his arms.
Sylvain looked down at the bundles of parchment on his desk. “I’m trying to write some letters,” he admitted.
Felix’s jaw ticked. “They’re not going to listen. My father certainly didn’t.”
Sylvain sighed, rubbing his face again. “Do you think we’re crazy, Fe?”
Felix walked over to Sylvain’s desk and swept his letters into a pile. He picked up a book from Sylvain’s desk and placed it on top, both keeping them neatly stacked and also effectively blocking them from Sylvain’s view.
“Felix,” Sylvain argued, reaching to move the book, but Felix just slid everything, book and letters combined, back on the desk.
“Don’t, Sylvain,” he countered.
Sylvain grabbed Felix’s wrist instead and the Fraldarius heir looked down at him. “I can’t face them out there. Maybe they’ll just stay home if we ask nicely.”
Felix’s gaze darkened. “You’ve seen him. He won’t stop until he or Edelgard or both are dead.”
“But Mercedes? Dedue? Would they follow him blindly down?” Sylvain said, sounding pained.
“Dedue will,” Felix confirmed. He sighed. “Mercedes will follow because that’s what she believes in.”
Sylvain adjusted his grip on Felix’s wrist so that he was cupping his friend’s hand instead of his wrist. Felix tensed at the movement but didn’t say anything about it. Sylvain, taking the chance he was given, rubbed his thumb in a slow circle over the back of Felix’s hand. He traced a pale white scar: half-moon shaped and more than a few years old.
Felix pulled away, leaning against the desk and folding his arms again. “You should get some sleep, Sylvain. It’s late.”
Sylvain sighed. “Felix, you realize that since you came in here to interrupt me you’re also being incredibly hypocritical, right?”
Felix frowned. “Shut up.”
For a moment, they were both quiet and the faint gusts of wind from outside were the only sounds that could be heard over their slow, steady breaths. The quietness of the moment was deafening and Sylvain felt himself tear up with no real explanation why. Felix didn’t look at him, so he didn’t notice when Sylvain stared directly into the nearly burnt out lamp on his desk to try and force his tears back.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” Sylvain said quietly when it feels like the weight of the moment is going to crush him.
“Yes, we did,” Felix replied shortly. “Remember, you weren’t the only one who made that promise, Sylvain.”
Sylvain shook his head. “Come on, Fe, we all know we had stupidly selfish reasons for changing classes. Nobody would have faulted us for not showing up. There is a war going on.”
Felix finally turned to look down at him. He grabbed one of Sylvain’s hands where it rested on the desk by the wrist. With surprising tenderness, Felix rotated Sylvain’s hand until he could see the straight, white scar trio under his wrist. Felix’s index finger ghosted over the marks and Sylvain resisted the urge to shiver.
“I didn’t think you were being selfish, Sylvain,” he said. “I thought you were being brave.”
Sylvain tugged his hand free, suddenly uncomfortable. “Come on, Felix, we all know I only left because the Professor had the gall to smile at me over dinner once.”
Felix huffed. “Don’t do that. Don’t get defensive and shut me out.”
Sylvain raised an eyebrow. “What? Do you have a monopoly on being emotionally unreachable?”
“Sylvain? Felix?”
They both turned to the door of Sylvain’s room like they had been burned, Felix’s hands snapping back to his side and Sylvain straightening in his chair. Ingrid was standing there, holding the doorframe like its an anchor, with an unreadable expression on her face.
She was wearing a loose tunic and her hair was loose around her face, free from braids and ribbons. Her fingers fidgeted on the door frame and Sylvain knew she was close to bolting just purely out of instinct. He stood up.
“Hey, Ing. What are you doing up?”
She bit her lip and stepped into the room, sliding the door closed behind her. She fiddled with a leather string that hung around her neck and Sylvain’s gaze was immediately drawn to the heavy silver ring that hung on it. His chest tightened and he felt incredibly guilty for a moment.
Felix recognized the ring faster than Sylvain did, as he should have, and he spun, walking to Sylvain’s window, keeping his back to both of them. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before Ingrid’s arrival and Sylvain wants to go to both of them. His heart warred with itself in his chest, but his grief won out so he moved to sit down on his mattress.
“I was just getting something to eat because I couldn’t sleep and I saw your light on,” Ingrid admitted quietly, stepping further into the room. She was talking about Sylvain’s room, but her eyes were fixed on Felix’s back.
Sylvain’s lips twitched into a guilty smile. “Got caught up in some work. Fe was just reprimanding me about staying up too late, so don’t worry. I don’t need two lectures on that front.”
“I heard some of what you were talking about,” Ingrid admitted quietly. Felix still hadn’t turned to face her even though she’s standing almost directly behind him.
Sylvain stiffened. “Ingrid,” he started.
She shook her head. “Don’t give me that. It was my choice to be here, Sylvain.”
Felix turned around finally, staring at Ingrid. He could look down at her a little bit, which was more than he used to be able to do when they were children. Felix’s amber eyes were sharp in the dim light of the room.
“Ingrid, you, of all of us, had the least reason to come.”
Ingrid must have felt particularly bold as she inclined her chin and stepped towards Felix so that they were just a breath’s width apart. Sylvain shot to his feet on instinct alone and stood frozen as Ingrid’s green eyes blazed as she stared down Felix.
“I’m here because I made a promise. You and Sylvain are here for the same reason and I’ve decided to fight for what I believe in. Do not, ever, minimize my choices, Felix,” she said sharply.
“Claude speaks well,” Sylvain cut in before Felix could retort. Both of his friends turned towards him and Sylvain continued. “He speaks of this future he dreams of with equality and balance and no person who is worth more than any other.” The volume of his voice dropped. “I want to see his world.”
Felix turned his head away from Ingrid. “The Kingdom stands for everything I hate. Knighthood and dying for meaningless systems that just cause more pain than they need to.”
Ingrid held out her hand to Sylvain and, half-numb, he took it, tangling their fingers together. “I believe in Claude’s future. It sounds like a world where we could feel like we belonged.”
Sylvain squeezed her hand. They had never spoken about the drunken kiss he had bestowed upon Ingrid after the ball in the five years since it had happened, but Ingrid spoke with such conviction about everything that it was hard not to see her own dreams laid out. And it was hard not to want to be a part of them.
“The professor will see it through,” Felix said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “She and Claude will see this through no matter how many people they have to cut down on the way.”
Sylvain reached for Felix without thinking. He grabbed Felix’s hand and pulled him towards him so quickly that Felix, always unflappable and light on his feet, stumbled into Sylvain’s chest. Still holding Ingrid by the hand, Sylvain trapped Felix into a hug, pulling Ingrid’s arm into it until she stepped around Felix to complete the hug.
“Nobody is allowed to die on me,” Sylvain said, his voice nearly trembling. “If we have to face them on the battlefield at Gronder then neither of you are ever allowed to die. Not without me.”
Felix was tense in Sylvain’s hug, but Sylvain felt fingers curl into the material of his shirt as Felix gripped it tightly. “You can’t say shit like that and be prepared to fall on a sword for either of us at a moment’s notice,” he grumbled.
Ingrid shifted, sliding around so that she was standing closer to Sylvain and she pressed her forehead into his upper arm. “We’ve only got each other now, right?” she asked.
Sylvain loosened his arms. “No, I don’t believe that. I just,” he trailed off, catching Felix’s gaze with his own. His heart twisted. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Felix pushed Sylvain away by the chest. Sylvain rocked back onto his heels, off-balance, and practically dragged Ingrid and Felix with him as he fell onto his ass on his bed. Ingrid tripped and nearly fell onto the bed, only catching herself by slamming a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder to keep upright. Felix staggered, but he stayed on his feet, his hand still tightly grabbing the material of Sylvain’s shirt.
“You can’t just,” Felix struggled for a moment, exhaling shakily. “You can’t say that, Sylvain.”
Sylvain wrapped his hand around Felix’s. “We already promised, Felix. Together or not at all.”
Ingrid’s hand was pressed against her own chest, curled around the ring. “No more losses,” she said fiercely.
Felix’s hand dropped from Sylvain’s chest, sliding free of Sylvain’s loose grip. He turned to Ingrid and pulled her into a tight hug. Sylvain could only stare blankly as Felix pressed his face against Ingrid’s shoulder.
“I lost Glenn and I turned my back on my father and Dimitri,” Felix said lowly. Sylvain was almost surprised to hear Felix say the King’s name. “I’m not losing anyone else.”
Sylvain watched as Ingrid squirmed against Felix, reaching up to pull the tie in his hair loose. Felix’s hug loosened as Ingrid slowly combed her fingers through his shaggy hair, pulling it loose around his shoulders. Her gaze flickered to Sylvain and he wanted to reach for both of them.
Felix let Ingrid fully flatten down his hair before he lifted his head up. He lifted a hand slowly, carefully, and twisted a lock of her golden hair around his finger. Ingrid’s chin tilted up and Sylvain watched Felix press the faintest kiss to the corner of her mouth. Felix’s hand slid down until he thumbed at the Fraldarius ring that Ingrid still wore.
“Stay,” Sylvain said to both of them and to neither of them. Ingrid’s head turned towards him, her lips nearly brushing Felix’s again through the motion. He held out a hand and Ingrid took it, moving towards him.
Felix followed Ingrid like a magnet and soon they both stood over him. Ingrid pushed Sylvain’s knees apart and stepped between them. She brushed a hand through his hair and bent over so that they were so close he could feel her shallow breaths falling across his face. Sylvain straightened up, tilting his head up to meet her and his arms looped around her waist, reaching past her to pull Felix in as well.
Ingrid kissed him and Felix took his hands and Sylvain closed his eyes. Ingrid pulled back after a moment and tilted her head to look back at Felix. Sylvain tapped her foot lightly with one of his own and she shifted, practically sitting in Sylvain’s lap across the bed. Felix followed her motion and his face lowered, pressing a light kiss to the top of Sylvain’s head.
“Sylvain,” Ingrid breathed. “There’s no guarantee any of us will come back.”
“We have to,” he said quietly, tugging Felix closer. “I’m not losing either of you and I won’t let us lose each other.”
There was a little bit of awkward shuffling as Felix nudged Sylvain backwards. Sylvain crawled back on the bed, sprawling out. Ingrid stayed at the foot of the bed, but Felix followed Sylvain, his legs straddling Sylvain’s waist. Sylvain’s hand found the back of Felix’s head and guided him down into a firm kiss. Felix’s kiss wasn’t hesitant or gently like Ingrid’s. It was burning and full of all the words that weighed down his chest.
Finally, Felix broke back and he and Sylvain stared at each other almost breathlessly. Then, Felix shifted, reaching for Ingrid. She took his hand and Felix practically pushed her down next to Sylvain. Sylvain’s arm curled around her waist as she fell into him and he pressed a kiss to her ear as her hair tickled his face.
Felix leaned down and kissed Ingrid on the lips, placing one of his hands on her jaw and sliding it back into her hair. Ingrid broke the kiss, turning her face into Sylvain’s touch so their noses just barely brushed. Felix rolled off of them, tucking himself on Sylvain’s other side, but reaching across so that he could still have one hand on Ingrid.
“Together,” Ingrid said. “Tomorrow we go out there together and we face the future together.”
“Okay,” Sylvain agreed.
The lamp flickered out and none of them moved for the rest of the night, Sylvain’s desperate letters forgotten under an old book on his desk.
12 notes · View notes
rox-the-proxy · 4 years
Text
Of Last Men Standing and Runaway Kings
A Dimiclaude fix I wrote a while back and posted on Ao3, so you can also go read this there if you so desire. I'm basically in hell with all the ships I have for FE3H and have no shame. So here is this for you all to (hopefully) read and enjoy.
When Claude had offered him a home in the Alliance territory, after having seen him slip away silently from the armies after the defeat of his stepsister and her empire, Dimitri believed it to be a joke. After all, Claude was known for such things. But he seemed sincere about it, determined to help him even though Dimitri didn't ask for it, didn't think he deserved it. And in his own mind, he didn't. After he had savagely taken the lives of any and all who stood in his way of getting to Edelgard, why would he deserve help? He didn't think there was a logical explanation or reason for it. Never had, and he probably never would. But Claude saw differently, out of the three of them, it seemed he would be the last man standing. And honestly, Dimitri was fine with that. Happy with it even, after all, Edelgard had killed so many innocent people, Dimitri himself had done so as well and went mad with revenge and bloodlust. 
But Claude? No, not him. He remained calm, collected and even tried to stop Edelgard by helping the Kingdom as best as he could. In the end however....he too watched the brutality of Dimitri's actions when he took Edelgard's life. Even after it all, Dimitri believed that he would feel peace, that he would finally be free of the voices of the dead that haunted him as much as he was awake as they did in his sleep. But that didn't seem to be the case. Dimitri felt empty, lost, suddenly all that anger and lust for blood was gone with her death, but....he still didnt feel better. He couldn't fathom why he didnt feel better, he truly couldn't understand why he felt so much worse. Maybe because it had been his Stepsister, someone he had grown close to. Maybe that is why it felt so much worse. He had only come back to his senses after everything was said and done, after the damage had been done and there was no turning back time now. 
The way back to the Leicester Alliance took longer then what Dimitri had been expecting. Though it made sense seeing as they had to go deep into the Empire territory to reach the Capital of Enbarr. He had never ridden a Wyvern before so when Claude had pulled him up on his own then sat behind him, he was a bit nervous, especially when the said White colored Wyvern shot up into the sky. For those few moments, he had shut his remaining eye tightly and held his breath even. After a little while he was able to relax and enjoy the silent ride all the way back. Or, at least somewhat silent. Claude tried to maintain conversation with him as best he could as to keep the one eyed Male out of the dark depths of his mind. He was good at that, keeping people distracted from the stress and worries of the world. As well as good at keeping people distracted from they needed to do, if their academy days were a thing to go by that is. As they flew well into near sunset, Claude had also taken it upon himself to teach the blonde a few things about riding a Wyvern, even going as far as to allow him to hold onto the reins. 
It had been the most grounded and human Dimitri had felt in quite a long time if he was going to be honest. Five years of solitude and killing mercilessly often times took the humanity out of a person. Either way, Dimitri didn't feel like an empty husk, or a mindless animal. For the first two days in the Alliance, Dimitri never left Claude's side. Part of that was due to him not wanting to be anywhere else, but also in part that he was an outsider, he wasn't trusted enough to be left alone. On the third day however he was surprised when Claude took him to where the Wyvern are usually kept and there the green eyed man gifted him a beautiful single blue eyed Wyvern who's scals were as dark as a starless night sky. He had explained that this one got hurt young and hasn’t been able to ride out. However, He could cover his blindside like can cover his. And that he felt like it would help him in the long run to adapt to a new world to give him a task to focus on such as training a wyvern in order to get back on his feet. 
Claude had gone further to explain that this particular Wyvern is temperamental, moody, isolated himself, protective of younger born wyverns to a point, and wary to strangers. To be honest, Dimitri could see himself a lot in this creature. He had also been informed that he wasn't from these lands. He flew home in the wrong directions after getting hurt and breeders found him. Marianne tried her best but even she had a hard time convincing it to be near a rider. Dimitri had been worried when that had been explained to him. However Claude gave him a reassuring smile, telling him that those people are not like him. Without a name of his own he refused to listen to anyone else. So flying on his own was out of the question. Dimitri had spent the rest of that day getting to know his new Wyvern, and that same night he had tried a multitude of names before the one eyed creature seemed to like and react to one particular name; Aslan. 
After that, Claude took him back to the Von Riegan manor. From there he had asked the green eyed male for a favor, if he could take his old armor and cloak and keep it hidden from him. As a deserter of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, he didn't feel like he had a right to wear the royal blue that everyone associated with the Kingdom itself. Claude had been reluctant at first, it was like Dimitri was still trying to Vanish from the world. But the tired, lost, sorrowful look in his remaining eye is what convinced Claude to agree and do as the other man had asked him to do. For another few days, Dimitri spent his days getting to know Aslan as well as being shown around by Claude. Around the second week was when Claude announced that Dimitri was now an official citizen of the Alliance and his retainer as well. In that moment, Dimitri was in small state of shock. He hadn't been sure if he could believe or not. After all, how else was he supposed to take the news? Especially when he had learned later that Claude had over ruled the other lords and advisors just to make sure that he had a citizenship.
That night, the blonde found himself shirtless, hair dripping wet, sitting in a chair in front of a mirror in Claude's room as the man dried his hair. The day had been long, full of paperwork and he had begun to hallucinate, hearing the voices of his father, Glenn and all those who had died protecting him. All of them asking him why he had ran, why was he leaving his Kingdom on it's own, why was he running away like a coward. That had lead to a rather....uncomfortable breakdown for him, so much so he had disassociated for a few hours. When he finally seemed to have slowly come back out of it, he had found himself looking up at Claude who was sitting to his left near the edge of the bath, washing his hair out for him. It was...embarrassing to say the least that he had a tough time doing the basic things like washing himself, remembering to eat or even drink. After the bath, and getting half dressed he silently sat there, letting the now Leader of the Alliance dry and brush his hair. 
Dimitri was startled out of his thoughts when he felt a pair of hands gently cupping his cheeks and a thumb brushing over his scarred eye, he was quick to reach up and grip the hands by the wrists, but also seemed to realize these hands were not going to cause him any harm. He had to take a few deep breaths before he slowly released his tight hold on Claude's wrists. He felt a pang of shame and guilt when he saw the discoloration on the beautifully tanned skin, he always had an issue with controlling that monster strength of his. Even now, after five and a half years he still couldn't quite get a hold on it, though at this point it was sure due to his lack of caring about it a year after he had been kept locked up in a certain in the Kingdom by Cordila. God he was so pleased to watch the life fade from her eyes. That thought alone however, sent a cold chill down his spine, one that sent a shudder through his body. Claude had clearly noticed, how could he not when he had his face cupped between his hands? He didn't say anything on the matter, he merely kept gently brushing his thumb over the scarring of his now ruined and dead eye. 
"Its okay, it doesn't hurt. It wont bruise." 
Dimitri felt comforted by those gentle words, even though he had a hard time believing it. He had crushed skulls with his hands, he had broken steel Lances, swords, scissors, sewing needles and many other things as well. So he found it hard to believe that the other man wouldn't have bruising around his wrists. Truly, it seemed like all he was good at was hurting those he loved, and letting them die due to his inability to do a damn thing. 
"My apologies." Dimitri whispered, hardly recognizing his own voice. "It...came as a shock."
"I would imagine so, finally back with us?" Claude asked, he wouldn't move or stop what he was doing until he knew for a fact Dimitri was all there again. Or at least as close to being all there as he could be considering whatever hell he had witnessed over the past five and a half years. He felt the other give the smallest nod before he gave the one eyed man a reassuring smile. "Good, I'm almost done with your hair, and then we can go to bed, okay?"
"If that is what you wish, my Lord."
"Claude." 
He wasn't used to being called lord or anything else of that kind. In fact, he didn't like it. Especially when it came from Dimitri of all people. Despite him having no noble or royal status here in the Alliance as of today, that didn't meant he actually wasn't royalty. The man was heir to the Kingdom Of Faerghus Throne, but he had decided to throw that part of him away and simply try to vanish from the world, when he had confronted Dimitri about leaving and asked if he wanted to be a forgotten king, the other hadn't denied it, but he didn't confirm it either. But it was clear that's what he wanted if his silence and longing look at the idea of simply being forgotten was anything to go by. Claude had felt an unbearable need to help Dimitri when he saw him like that. So he did, and without hesitation as well, when he heard the rumors of the Mad King of Faerghus, he could see why even Dimitri himself had stopped seeing the humanity in himself. He had even seen first hand how brutal he could get in the battle field, he had even experienced getting a wound from him. Something he wasn't quite ready to let Dimitri know about or even remind him about just yet. The man had enough guilt piled a mile high on his shoulders. He wordlessly stood up, and simply went back to the task at hand of brushing his hair. It was...shocking to see the scars that littered Dimitri's back and front. He had so many, all ranging from small, to large, from clean and nearly unnoticeable to unsightly and inflamed slightly. The one on his eye seemed to be the one that bothered him most, he supposed that Dimitri had expected Claude to flinch back at the sight of it, but no. He didn't do that, and he could see how that seemed to ease the blonde's Feral behavior. 
"There, come on, let's get to bed. We have a long day tomorrow." 
He held his hand out to the one eyed male once he was standing in front of him again. During his time here, Claude had made it habit to always hold his hand or have the blonde hold onto his arm as they walked around. Either way, Dimitri was always close to his side, he made sure of that. In a sense, he guessed he was doing this mainly to keep the other grounded as they went about doing daily tasks that needed to be done after such a large scale and sudden war. And well, he wanted the other man close to him, he wanted to save him and make up for those he couldn't save. This was his own way of atoning for the old friends he had to kill. He could only imagine what Dimitri felt like what he had to do in order to atone for his own actions which had been so much worse than what many could even imagine. He only hoped that maybe one day, despite what he had done, Dimitri could see the humanity in himself. For now though, Claude was happy to help him as much as he could. As he finally got the blonde to lay down, he sat next to him as he looked down at the runaway king. He looked so tired, clean at least, but he just looked exhausted. The bags under his good eye, the fact he looked much thinner then what Claude could remember. And well, the fresh wound on his left hip and on his shoulder. 
"El...even in her last moments she refused to go down without inflicting another wound." 
Ah, so that's where the one on his shoulder came from. He wondered about the one on his hip, it was a rather big slash and it had horrible, painful bruising around it. Almost as if it had gotten infected, thankfully though that wasn't the case. Claude sighed as he moved to lay down, but kept himself propped up with his elbow. Dimitri looked much more relaxed now that his head was resting on pillows, a mattress that supported him nicely under warm blankets that fought off the chill of the night breeze that flowed in through the window. His hair cascading over the soft pillow and over his eyes. Slowly the green eyed male reached down and gently brushed those gold colored locks out of his face. His hand lingered, entangled in those freshly washed, soft locks of hair. The action seemed to help Dimitri relax, especially as he watched the remaining good eye close slowly and stay that way even minutes later when he slowly pulled his hand away. He had never seen the other so relaxed, so vulnerable and he wasn't sure if he liked just how small he looked despite him being a rather tall man.
"Why are you doing this?" 
The question came out of nowhere and it had startled the green eyed male considering he had thought the other man had fallen asleep. Clearly that was not the case, and he had a feeling that hadn't been the case in a long time, if the dark bags under his eye were anything to go by. The said green eyed male reached down slowly, gently and carefully caressing the man's cheek, his fingers stopping under the dark bags. That blue eye that used to shine with life was dull, haunted. Claude missed that look he used to have, he used to smile, used to shine so bright, but war changed people, Dimitri had witnessed horrors at such a young age and then again when Edelgard declared war on the church. That war had killed all of their former selves, but for Dimitri it was like he was a completely different human being all together. It was frightening, he would admit that much. It was such a stark change that it left everyone in shocked, especially considering everyone thought he had died in the Kingdom, executed by the people he once trusted. 
"Because, your still my friend. And I, for once, want to be able to save one person with my own hands. I want to show you that you aren't a monster like you claim to be." 
It seemed that had been a response that Dimitri was not expecting. He could tell he was shocked and rendered speechless. Claude would admit he was proud of the reaction he got out of him. The green eyed male smiled, as he draped his arm over the other and pulled him close once she finally decided to lay down fully. "Sleep, runaway king of Lions. Tomorrow is a long day." He said with a soft hum. 
That night, for once Claude realized out of the three of them, despite Dimitri being alive, he truly was the last man standing. But at least out of the three of them, two would continue to live and he would make sure Dimitri would as well.
20 notes · View notes
deathbyvalentine · 4 years
Text
Hurt/Comfort Prompts - Physical
No Pain Killers Available
Lance was no longer grossed out by the sight of his own insides. It felt like it should be more of a milestone than it was. They don’t make medals for this. It wasn’t glamorous or courageous. It definitely didn’t look good on any holovid. There was just the sound of him gritting his teeth and his hands clamped over the wound, holding everything together. He told his feet to move, one step at a time. Eyes trained ahead. Don’t focus on the moving parts around you. Get to the medic. Just get to the medic. Don’t die.  As always, he got there on time. Someone began fussing over the wound, prising his hands away to see the depth of the damage. And then holding some small white pills in their hands, tipping them towards him. He shook his head, knocking them aside. Even things that were not addictive, were addictive. If it felt good, he could find the hook. The only way through was by not slipping at all.
So he felt it when the medic’s hands pressed inside to pull grit out of the wound. He felt it when they cleaned the carved flesh and began to sew it up in long steady strokes. There was no escape, no welcoming fog or waiting darkness. Just the sharp stabs of the needle and the deeper, profound ache of the open wound. He tried to focus on other things - the feeling of fabric under his fingertips, the buzz of conversation moving above his head. Hell, even the irritating-just-healed mark on his chest. Anything but what was happening. 
It was over, the repair at least. The pain wouldn’t fade for a while. He would struggle to the medbay when they got off this piece of rock and try to sleep. Nothing to do but to let it heal to a level where he could do his damn job, then push through the pain all the while. It was routine by now. 
He wondered what the moment was when he got used to being in pain. He couldn’t remember it. It seemed quite long ago now. 
__________________________________________________________
Gotta Stay Quiet To Avoid Discovery
Esfir clamped a hand over his mouth, pulling him back into the shadows and against the wall. His shoulder blades hit the wall and he put his weight against it, desperately trying not to stand on his ankle. The leather of his shoe was tight, pressing against the swollen flesh. He had definitely broken it. The only question was how badly. Every movement he made sent daggers of pain up and down his leg. Dimitri was no stranger to pain but this made him feel sick and faint. That could have been due to the anxiety of course. How the fuck were they going to get out of here? He looked over at Esfir, trying to communicate how utterly fucked they were without words. Speed or silence was the way to escape and he was currently capable of neither.
He should have known really, that Esfir would save him. She looked him up and down, deciding something. In one swift movement, she bent her knees, and pulled him onto her back. He understood immediately and pressed close. She was going to carry him out of here. They stuck to the shadows, each of her footsteps carefully planted and chosen. Every so often, she would freeze and Dimitri would try not to breathe as a guard moved past. He couldn’t help but be a bit amused. He’d been trying to find a way to shut her up for months and all he had to do was break an ankle. 
It seemed like hours later when they finally managed to exit the compound. He expected to be immediately dumped on the ground but... She kept carrying him, all the way to Vega. The pain had managed to slow to a deep ache and Vega said something about being able to fix it in no time at all. Dimitri could barely keep his eyes open through that conversation, exhausted both from pain and from the effort of staying quiet and clinging to Esfir. He decided, on the whole, sleep was a better option than consciousness. The last thing he saw as he gave himself up to rest was Esfir watching him with an intensity he was surprised by. She had surprised him a lot today.
______________________________________________ Feverish Delirium And Mumbling (Olethra)
Cal shifted on the table. It was dark and it was cold but for the moment at least, they had a moments peace. Even the cold was welcome - their skin was burning up, like a fire inside them had been lit and was moments away from being an inferno. All they had to do right now was keep breathing. One breath after the other. They turned their head to the side and blinked at what they saw there. “Nic?” “Hey there.” It had been a long time since they saw him last but he looked exactly the same. Cravat slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up. He must be off duty. Cal wanted to cry but they couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. The why must have been unimportant. Nic caught their hand as they raised it to cup his face and pressed a kiss to the inside of their palm. “What have you done to yourself now eh? The Chaser should start charging you a finder’s fee.” “The Chaser is here?” “Of course. Didn’t think we’d let you wander off alone, did you?” His voice was warm, reassuring.  “Is Bridge angry?” Nic blinked, his tone becoming softer. “Throne no, Cal. Pip is frantic of course and Gwyn has burnt through a years supply of candles in a week but none of us are angry.” “That’s good.” They closed their eyes in a vain attempt to stop tears from leaking out. It didn’t work.  Nic was there with a handkerchief, gently wiping them away. For a minute there was just silence, Nic holding their hand and the sound of their own breath. “Can you talk to me? For a bit. Just. Until - “ “What do you want to hear? I could catch you up on our holoshow. Oh, or tell you about Silvestro actually managing to rip one of his shirts via the medium of flexing. We should never have doubted him. I thought astropaths were meant to be svelte but I suppose I’ve been proved wrong once again.” “Is Mordecai okay? What about Baris?” There were too many questions bubbling up. “Baris is with us. Him and Gwyn have formed a ministry of two. And Mordecai is Mordecai. Busy and surrounded by paperwork as a general rule. I can ask and let him be here for a while, if you want - “ “No!” The suddenness of the exclamation made them wince. Nic immediately hushed them, pushing hair out of their eyes and tutting about Cal’s inability to ever rest properly. “No. I just want you.” “You’ve got me.” He brushed a thumb along their knuckles. “I promise.” “I like your promises.” Cal murmured. “You always keep them.” “Well. I feel like very high on the list of things that you shouldn’t do is lie to a saint.” “I’d be able to tell anyway. I can always tell with you.” “One of the only ones.” His voice was indescribably fond. “You should sleep.” “I don’t want to.” “I know. But if you’re going to get back to me for real, you’re gonna need it.”“ “Stay until I fall asleep at least?” “Always.” 
________________________________________________________
Cowboy Medicine: Whiskey Internally & Externally Applied
This sucked. There was no other way to face it. Ash had a hand clamped tight over her ribs, feeling warmth ooze out between her fingers. She had her jaw clenched tight, breathing through it. Positives. Think of the positives. She was in her motel room. Nobody had died. Oh and - she checked the minifridge. Bingo. Three small bottles of vodka, whiskey and gin sat, unassuming. She grabbed the gin, twisting the bottle cap between her teeth and spitting it out, downing it in one. She grabbed the other two and made her way slowly to the bathroom, clicking the light on with her shoulder.
She looked like hell. Bruises were blooming along the underside her jaw in the shape of fingerprints. Then the blood soaking through her shirt. Rummaging through her toiletry bag one handed, she found the face wipes, sewing kit and the lighter. She opened the vodka and left it resting on the side. She threaded a needle, flicked the lighter on and passed the point through the flame before setting that aside too. Painfully she tugged her shirt off and over her head, letting it drop to the floor. Stage one - inspect the wound.
She brushed a face wipe over it to clean off some of the blood, muffling a whimper. It was a surface wound, but a deep one. She could see white underneath all the red and for a moment the world tilted slightly. She took a steadying breath and waited for it to right itself. When it did, she picked up her shirt and balled it up, pressing it to her mouth. She grabbed the vodka and poured it over the wound. She screamed of course, but the fabric dulled the sound. Next she picked up the needle. With one hand she pressed the two sides of the wound closed. The worst bit was over. Sewing yourself up was easy. Just like fixing a jacket and she had done her fair share of that. Smooth motions, don’t hesitate when it hurts. Pull tight at the end and make sure you throw away the fucking needle. When it was done, she downed the whiskey too, for completeness sake. She was trembling slightly, from either adrenaline or the crash from it. But the gin was starting to hit her, adding a rosy blush to proceedings and a softness to the pain. 
She stumbled to the bed, gingerly lowering herself onto it and staring up at the ugly plastered ceiling. No, the booze wasn’t strictly necessary. But it sure as fuck helped.
_______________________________________________________
Huddling For Warmth
Lance’s lips were very slightly tinted blue, in contrast to his cheeks which were  a flushed red. He had wrapped his arms tight around himself and pulled his gloved hands up into the sleeves. Occasionally he would stamp his feet, not so much because it helped but because it seemed like the thing to do. Astrid, of course, had her hood down and only the tip of her nose was pink. She looked at him sidelong. Lance had stubbornly set his jaw and was pointedly looking ahead of him.  “You okay?” “Fine.” Astrid’s mouth twitched, suppressing a smile at how utterly predictable he was.  “You’re not cold?” “No.” He said, visibly shivering.  “Oh for - come here.” She moved behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest and resting her chin on top of his head. For a moment he stood stiffly, cross at what he saw as pity, but a breath or two later he relaxed back into her. She could literally feel the tension drain from his shoulders and then she was taking a little of his weight. “They’ll be here soon. Don’t die.” “I refuse to die on your planet. It’ll give it pretensions.”  “You’ve already nearly died here once, let’s not push our luck.”  “Technically I did die.” Astrid let the silence sit for a moment. “Yeah.” Finally the transport slid up, the driver apologising profusely for being late on the pick up. Lance gave her a withering glance Astrid assumed they taught all Duroveras at birth. She released him, letting him clamber in first, a little clumsily due to his numb fingers. She followed, graceful, making him tut in sheer annoyance. He leaned forward to immediately turn the heating up to full, looking at her and daring her to say something. Astrid just sat back and grinned.
____________________________________________________________
Desperate Hand-Holding
An illness was sweeping through the factory. Another reason to dislike the noble visitors. They brought in germs to a closed environment and didn’t stick around to witness the carnage caused. Three had died already though admittedly they were either old or weak to begin with and probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. This was not a place to get sick. No care would be afforded to you. You survived or died and you did it alone.
Cal twisted in their bunk, feverish sweat soaking the thin sheets around them. Their skin felt on fire, their core something molten. Every position they settled in became unbearable a moment later. What frightened them more was how every thought they had seemed to float away a moment later, unable to focus. They were aware of people moving around in the dormitory but couldn’t recognise their faces. 
Until Baris appeared that was. He sat beside them, placing something blessedly cool on their forehead. Water trickled across their skin in refreshing rivulets, leaving a slight scent of salt in its wake. He peeled the sheet down, bunching it up at the bottom of the bunk. He had another piece of soaked fabric and he ran it down their arms and legs, meaning the air felt a little cooler afterwards. Cal made a noise that might have been a sigh of relief. He passed them a water bottle. “This one isn’t salt, I promise. It’s from the d-d-distillery.” 
Cal leaned up to drink from it, hand trembling just a little. Baris went to help but Cal shook their head, determined to do it themselves. A stubborn streak a mile long would not be erased by something as mundane as a fever. After a long sip, they collapsed back down, a little out of breath but also a little less flushed. Baris watched them for a moment, then made to climb up to his higher bunk. Cal caught his wrist, then moved their hand down to his, holding it tightly. They didn’t need words. Baris knew damn well that they were frightened. He ran his thumb over their knuckles, calming them like he would an angry cat. At some point, their breathing levelled out and Baris realised that they had fallen asleep, still clutching his hand in a vice like grip that shouldn’t have strictly been possible from an unconcious person. And yet. He could have slipped off to bed now, but he didn’t. He stayed, thumb still making that same sweeping motion over and over. 
_________________________________________________________
“Breathe, Just Breathe.”
Tommy sat bolt upright, throwing the duvet back from him. His chest was so tight it was almost painful, like steel bands had tightened around his ribs. He couldn’t catch his breath and for a moment he could have sworn he felt blood running down his neck, the wound from the angels reopened. With shaking fingers he felt the tender skin and found it whole and unwanting. But it was still hard to breathe. He wondered if the stress had finally gotten to him, if his heart was giving out. It wouldn’t be exactly unexpected. Bets had always been if the angels of the lord didn’t kill him, his blood pressure would. 
Paris stirred next to him. He put out his arm to pull Tommy closer and when he found only mattress, opened one eye. A beat passed as the sleep dropped from his eyes and he sat up, alarmed. He wrapped a concerned arm around his shoulders. “Tommy?” He couldn’t answer him right away. He finally forced out; “I think I’m d-d-dying. I can’t... I can’t b-b-breathe.”  Paris felt his pulse, two fingers pressed to his neck. Then his temperature, back of his hand on his forehead. Then he looked at him closely, far too closely. “No babe, I think you’re having a panic attack.” “What? No. I - “  “You gotta calm down. Here.” He took Tommy’s hand and placed it on his bare chest. “Match my breathing. Slow down. Breathe.”
Tommy shut his eyes, screwing them up tight. He tried to focus on the muscles of his chest, to stop the desperate shuddering and to get it to a normal pace - Paris’s pace. It seemed to take an eternity. Longer than he thought he had left. Which meant he probably wasn’t dying. Probably. He opened his eyes. Paris was peering at him, worry written all over his face. But his breath had calmed to merely ‘crying’ rather than ‘hysterical’. He collapsed back onto his pillows, covering his face with his hands. “What happened?” “I...I think I had a bad dream.” The labyrinth, as it was at its worst. Dark and full of monsters, full of bodies. Michael’s, as it always was. Angels as there never was. Knowing he had eternity to wander here. Knowing he wouldn’t die. A hundred things that added up to a ton of weight pressing on his chest until his ribs were near cracking. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” Paris lay down too, pulling the duvet back over them both and pulling Tommy close. He almost resisted for a moment, then remembered that he was allowed comfort. He buried his face into Paris’s chest, embracing the smell of wood, sweat and paint. “I’m glad you did wake me. Do it on purpose next time, m’kay?” “I’ll try.” Tommy heard the usual ‘trust issues’ sigh happen above. But he also felt Paris smile and keep his arms around him. So it couldn’t be too bad. He couldn’t be too bad.
__________________________________________________________
Protectively Cradling A Broken Arm
The fall was quick and brutal. The rock had crumbled under his feet, sending Adam tumbling to the ground. His arm went underneath him as he landed and there was a sickening crack. It didn’t hurt right away. For a moment it just felt hot, like it was burning. He lay there stunned, blinking up at the blue sky. Then the pain came. Crackling down into his hand from his forearm, like lightning. It almost knocked the breath from him. He forced himself to think logically. First, he had to take deep breaths. It would help the pain and help him from hysterics. Next, he had to figure out a way to take the weight off, to wrap it up and stem the blood. For that, he would have to actually look at the damage. A deeply unappealing prospect. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, bracing himself. Looked down.
On the plus, no bone had pieced the skin. A large, angry purple lump had risen, making his arm look odd, wrong. His stomach instinctively heaved and he turned his head. He was stronger than this. A broken arm couldn’t shake him. He was a goddamn hero. He reached over to his bag, ignoring the jagged strikes of pain that went through him. Inside was a scarf. Remembering his first aid training, he made a basic sling.
Getting to his feet was harder than it should have been. He wobbled, his equilibrium completely shot. He held his arm close to his chest, trying to support it while also trying not to touch it. He suddenly understood why wolves walked the way they did when they had a thorn in their paw. He wanted to hiss at even the idea of someone approaching it, something feral inside him surfacing. He started the long walk home, hoping that if his arch enemy was going to show up soon, it would at least have the courtesy to wait a few hours. He was not at his best. Hardly an epic battle of wills for the ages. 
It took him rather a long time to stumble home through the woods. When he reached the clearing, Lizzie was sweeping leaves to the side, hoping to clear the paved area in front of the buildings. She double took when he stepped in, noting the colour drained from his face and the slightly jerky movement so different from his usually fluid stride. She dropped the broom and went to him immediately, calling for the first aider. They didn’t do hospitals. They took care of their own. Funnily enough, that thought didn’t reassure him. 
__________________________________________________________
The Word ‘Winced’
Ada straightened her leg out in front of her, pulling the stitches taunt with a practised snap. She very almost managed not to wince. Almost. It was one of the few physical impulses she didn’t yet have full control over, but she would. Eventually. She wasn’t best pleased at the position of the wound. It went up her inner thigh, jagged and red. It wasn’t a clean cut and she’d had to make the best of a bad job with her needlework. There would be a scar. Not a pretty one. If there was such a thing. She traced her fingers along it. It would be the only part of her that wasn’t beautiful. She didn’t know how to feel about that. If she had to feel anything at all. 
______________________________________________________
Whimpering
The forest was dark and deep. Almost peaceful. Only the gentlest wind rustled the leaves. Stars had appeared in the night sky and Elsie gazed up at them. If she died like this, her eyes would reflect them until dawn. She was fairly sure however, she wouldn’t die here. This was not where her story ended. She had faith. A shiver went through her - the cold was seeping in. She put a hand down in the dirt beside her, burying her fingers in the moist ground. She was a part of this world. She would not be removed so quickly.
The pain was in her lower back, tingling down her legs. She could move her legs but getting up was definitely beyond her. That was okay. She could sit a little longer, until her sisters swept through the woods and found her. A couple of hours at most. She had faith. She tried to adjust her position and a broken noise came out of her. She hated sounding and feeling so weak. She hated it more than anything else in the world. In the distance, a wolf howled. Or maybe not so in the distance at all. She could hear rustling in the bushes, stronger than the wind. A twig snapped. She closed her eyes for a long moment. And when she opened them, a pair of yellow eyes looked back at her. The wolf was not a large one. So it was either young or weak. Elsie could relate to that. It wasn’t growling and it’s hackles were not up. They regarded each other, warily. Slowly, she reached over to her pack and pulled out some dried meat, tossing it over to the creature. It sniffed suspiciously and then chomped it down. Hesitantly, she reached out a hand. It lingered in the space between them. The wolf kept looking at her, not approaching, not fleeing. She kept her hand steady. 
Then there was another howl. In an instant, it turned and disappeared into the dark trees. Back to it’s back. Like she would be soon.
_______________________________________________________
“Easy, Easy There” 
Her fingers dug into his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, almost hard enough to crack his bone. It was taking almost everything she had not to scream. Instead she muffled the agony behind her teeth. Othello struggled to keep a grip on her as she twisted in pain, kicking the door to the dining room open with one foot, rushing inside. Adam dashed in front of him, knocking the plates and fabric to the floor to make room for her body. Lucille had briefly disappeared but now she was back, holding a selection of small bottles. Othello placed Elsie down on the wooden table, moving to strip her of her pauldrons. 
His hands were practised; they all had the same armour after all, they had squired each other a hundred times. He discarded them effortlessly, pulling the gorget off and dropping it. The full extent of the damage suddenly became apparent. Her undershirt was soaked in sweat and blood. He rolled it up and winced in sympathy. Three arrow heads were lodged against her rib cage, almost fully embedded. They had missed her heart but hit bone. Worst of all, they had holy sigils carved deep into them. Her flesh couldn’t heal while they were there and she was half delirious with pain. Which frankly, was more of a problem for them than her. 
Othello nodded at Adam and then assumed the position. Adam knelt on her knees, keeping most of his weight off but just enough to keep her from kneeing Othello in the kidneys. They had learnt that lesson the hard way. Othello got her arms, cooing sweet words like she was a startled horse. His voice was low enough that only she could hear it. But Adam could hear the tone. Othello never spoke to any of them like that.
Lucille sat on the bench running alongside the table, getting to work. With deft fingers and a sharp knife, she prised the arrowheads from Elsie. She did so methodically, ignoring the swearing and writhing happening above her. It took a little longer than she would have liked - they were lodged deep. When they were freed, she poured a small vial over the wounds. They hissed and then Elsie’s attempted kicking slowed to nothing. Adam and Othello clambered off, looking as exhausted as the patient on the table. Othello dusted off his hands and slid them back under Elsie, scooping her up. 
“Alright princess, back into your tower. Sleep it off.” 
Adam didn’t even think she was awake, but he narrated anyway. He watched Othello carry her out the room before turning to Lucille, raising an eyebrow. She cocked her brow right back, shaking her head as she turned to clean up her workstation.
_____________________________________________________________
Being Carried
Matthias sniffled pathetically from his position on Sol’s back. It was probably for the best he was situated thus - he couldn’t see Sol rolling his eyes or the slight smile that tugged at the other man’s lips. Matthias had experienced such little discomfort in his life, even the smallest injury felt mortal. His naivety was one of the most endearing and most frustrating things about him. The current wound in question was a thin gash on the underside of his foot. Caused by a hidden piece of broken lantern, long forgotten by a previous parador. It wasn’t anything a medicae couldn’t fix in a matter of moments, but Matthias had still been horrified at the sudden flash of pain and the sight of his own blood. Sol was now carrying him home. Nevermind that Kharaman was not the easier terrain to walk on even without a hundred pound changeling on your back making pitiful noises. He wished he could say he begrudged it - but he didn’t. Matthias was fragile, more fragile than he let on, so if he was injured he would be taken care of.
When they reached the parador, one of his cambion sisters (it was almost impossible to distinguish which one exactly, three of them all looking extremely similar) immediately took control, pointing to a couch and sending a cousin for wine and water. He played up to his role, hand on forehead and moaning as though it were his last days. Dutifully, the family fussed and cleaned and pampered, while Sol watched from a distance, smiling. Matthias opened his eyes as his foot was bandaged and mouthed a thank you. He wasn’t always as oblivious as he seemed and he was always more grateful than he let on. Sol knew that.
___________________________________________________________
Coughing, or, God-Forbid, Sneezing, With Broken Ribs
Amberly did not do well with bed-rest. She didn’t do well with any sort of rest. She always wanted to be doing something, striding about, exploring or barking orders at whoeever was close enough to hear them. Unfortunately, the exploring had went a little sideways three days prior, a sudden appearence of slayer bugs sending her tumbling down a mountainside, Leifdeig managing to keep her feet in order to follow her and drag her home. Amberly was mostly fine apart from a concussion, a bruised ego and some broken ribs. All in all, a lucky escape.  Now she was laid up in bed, her books and inks around her, pillows piled up behind her. She didn’t know how to be helpless. It was not in her nature. She resented it. She flicked through pages of her diary restlessly, lost for what to write in days empty of event and high in thought. Leifdeig came in frequently to change her cold compresses and hear her complaints. Her steel showed when Amberly attempted to climb out of her nest, pushing her back down amongst the blankets with a single hand. She had given her her healing tea, which had numbed the pain a little and sent her into a dreamless sleep.
She woke when the sky was dark and scattered with stars. She could see it through the slightly ajar door. She could hear the breathing of her other half on the floor. Usually they slept curled up together, so close they could no longer remember who’s limbs were who’s, but Leifdeig had deemed her ribs too fragile to take any contact. There was such an absence beside Amberly that it was if a ghost had taken her place instead.
A cool draught came in from the door, carrying with it the promising pollen of spring time. It smelt like meadows and long walks and fresh flowers to crush into ink. However, it came with a rather brutal side effect. A tickle in the back of the nose, a hitch in the breath. Amberly’s eyes widened as she realised what was about to happen without a thing she could do to prevent it.
It was said that the swearing that occurred after the sneeze was enough to wake not only Leifdeig, but indeed, the entire village.
_____________________________________________________________
Fainting and Coughing up Blood
The room was warm and lit only by flickering tallow candles. The smoke from the opium only served to make it even more soft, giving the entire thing an air of a dream. Thomas blinked, bringing himself out of his reverie. He wanted to listen to this. He was reclining on velvet cushions, drinking wine and being admired by the most distinguished men of his generation. This was the place that he flourished. But tonight there was an odd pulsing in his head and he found himself prone to even more flights of fancy than usual. Absently, he passed his fingers in and out of the flame that was on the table before him. The gentleman beside him (Thomas thought vaguely that his name might be Oliver or perhaps Olivier) passed him the pipe and he accepted with a lazy smile. Warmth spread through him to the very tips of his fingers and toes, filling him with a contentment everyday life had yet to provide for him.
It was as he was passing the pipe to his neighbour that he realised something was wrong. The warmth in his chest had not faded. It seemed to have solidified, becoming paralysing. Discretely he retrieved his handkerchief from his breast pocket, raising it to his lips and coughing softly to try and dislodge whatever problematic element was attempting to make his lungs its home. The soft cough turned into a violent one and he was forced to wave away some offers of wine and water. When he pulled the white cotton away from his face, it was spotted with scarlet. A dull throb of alarm started in the pit of his stomach but it was easily quashed.
He stood. “Excuse me for the merest moment darlings, I must go attend to one of the more dull of my carnal instincts.” His first step out of the circle was confident. His second one was faltering. His third never came. A profound dizziness overtook him, sending him elegantly to the floor. Alarmed, Oliver/Olivier came to his side, helping him sit. He couldn’t hear himself but he tried to make some joke about the wine going to his head but everyone could see how pale he was, the dark circles that were almost bruises beneath his eyes. He would not have their pity or their concern. He shook them off and stood, taking a theatrical bow as if it were all some grand spectacle. 
Then he went to fetch some absinthe. He was not stupid. If he was dying, he would not be dying sober. He would die as he lived. Drunk and beautiful. But he had weeks yet. Perhaps month. He had more than enough time to ensure there would be sorrow over his death and a legacy to spare.
_____________________________________________________________
Waking Up Not Knowing Where They Are
The lost boys all stood over their fallen leader, looking down at his unconscious body. None of them were sure if they had ever seen him unconscious outside of a fight. Slightly declared that he had once seen him dizzy after a tumble down with a mud slide but nobody believed him. All of them had seen the last incident however. Peter, laughing with his back against the mountainside. A small rumble and a shower of stones and rocks came rolling down, one hitting him squarely in the temple. It had been two minutes since he had slumped down and he hadn’t opened his eyes yet. 
Cautiously, Curly kicked at his ankle. No response. Glancing around the other boys, he crouched down. He poked a finger into Peter’s ribs. “Peter?” The response was predictable, if sudden. His eyes flew open but they didn’t seem to actually see any of the surrounding children. His hand went to the dagger at his hip and drew it as his first reaction, before he even sat up or said a word. One hand shot up to grasp Curly’s shirt, using flight to push forwards, sending them both tumbling backwards like two spitting cats. 
Slightly understood instantly what had happened. Nobody, least of all Peter expected him to be hurt outside of battle. When he had woken with a throbbing pain and known he was unconcious, he had assumed it had been during a fight. And so he had woken assuming the fight was still ongoing and needed his might. Hence why Curly was now be rolled around in the dirt while Peter hollered like a boy possessed. 
It took Tink punching him once (very firmly) on the nose to make him pause and actually look at the person he was kneeling on. He blinked. “Hullo Curly.” “Hullo Peter.” Curly replied, amicably enough.  “You’re not a pirate.” “No, I’m not.” At this, Peter climbed off him and hauled him up with a friendly hand. “Well. Shall we go find some then? It’s technically their fault I pushed you after all.”
The twins’s brow furrowed as they tried to follow that logic, but they both decided to swiftly abandon it and instead nod with great enthusiasm. Not paying the slightest bit of attention to the dark bruise flowering at his temple, Peter zoomed up into the canopy to find a track to follow. Tink sighed in exasperation but that feeling was pushed out a moment later by the thrill of battle, triggered by Peter crowing. He had found something. And so they went on.
___________________________________________________________
Animal Attack
It was easy to find their way back to the castle. Even if they didn’t know the forest like the back of their hand, the slight glow it gave off at sunset was enough to guide you back. From here, they could just about see the tip of one elegant spire, reflecting the evening light. So they weren’t too far. They could make it back before nightfall.
One arm hung useless at their side, their shirt tattered around it. The other hand had managed to keep a tight grip on their sword, so they weren’t utterly defenceless. Then again, Julienne was never defenceless. They had teeth, after all. And they were an Ossienne. They were at their most dangerous when they were cornered. As that wolf had found out. But they hadn’t quite managed to come out unscathed. As well as the small matter of their arm, there was a deep bite in the meat of their thigh. It ached with every step, which was good. It was when the pain stopped you had to be worried. Then there was a selection of scratches and bruises, barely noticeable in the scheme of things. Jay had had worse. They had always had worse.
A hiss escaped as they stumbled over a rock, managing to correct their footing before any further damage was done. They took a moment, breathing heavily, refusing to lean against a tree. If they couldn’t get home on their own two feet, they didn’t deserve to get home at all. They pushed on, one foot after another, making up arbitrary challenges. Ten more steps then you can rest. Now fifteen. Now five. Always adding on just a few more. They were almost surprised when they broke through the treeline and into the meadow that sat behind the castle. The sun was almost sunken below the horizon. Even in the pain they were in, they took a moment to look at the castle, in all of its Glory. Home, the first place you learnt to run away from and the last place you run to. They restarted their weary walk, their one good hand trailing through the long grass.
_____________________________________________________________
DIY Bullet Removal
Saimon squirmed as Frankie pressed the pen knife in deeper, drawing a tut from the magician.  “Would you stay still?” “It feels odd.” “Yes, that’s pain.” “It’s different from normal.” “Humans have an eternal amount of ways of feeling pain. Don’t worry darling, we’ll try them all.” 
This seemed to mollify the king who obligingly sat a little stiller. He still tilted his head to watch Frankie dig out the bullet, his eyes bright and interested. He held his hand out for the bullet afterwards, rolling it in his palm. Odd, how such a small thing could kill someone. He didn’t seem to notice as Frankie bandaged up the shoulder, too fascinated with the bullet. He had requested his woundnot to be magically healed. He wanted to see what normal rate healing was like and Frankie was never one to deny his whims. Nikolai thought it best not to mention that he wasn’t sure that Saimon could do anything normally, let alone heal. The blood was rather... viscous. Dark. It reminded him of oil or... honey. His shoulder was soon bound and a clean shirt placed on him. A few scoldings from Bobbi for poking it later, his attention was somewhere else. Frankie had told him the old myth of carving a bullet with a name. Saimon of course, wanted to try this immediately and was trying to think of who exactly he hated. Nikolai was happy to supply more than a few. Another evening passed, in a haze of hate and love.
______________________________________________________________
Temporary Blindness
The world was dark and unfriendly. Cal curled up tighter, bringing their knees up to their chest and holding them there until their arms and thighs ached with the effort. Holding something helped, the feeling of the rough fabric under their palms, the slight warmth of their own body. Touch comforted, unlike hearing. The null field rendered the most innocent sounds hostile if you couldn’t see what caused them. What they heard was footsteps and distant screams, their own pulse, their own breath, the murmuring of guards walking past the cell door. None of these things reassured them. They held themselves tighter. They just had to get through the next minute. And the one after that. And the one after that. And the - 
______________________________________________________________
Temporary Deafness 
The world was filled by a high pitched ringing so loud he screwed up his eyes as if it would help quiet it. For a moment he was unsure about if he had been hurt or not, his disorientation was so great. From his position on the ground, he patted his head and chest, relieved to find only grazes and no pouring wounds. He would be bruised from his being thrown to the ground but he would escape. The mortar had left a devastating hole in the ground, sent dirt and shrapnel flying in every direction. The force had knocked him to the ground but also he had been astoundingly lucky.
But the attack wasn’t over yet. He could see his unit shouting for him, their lips moving but no sound reaching him except that ringing. Shakily, he pushed himself off the ground, grasping his rifle and slinging it on his back. His legs refused to walk in a straight line as he stumbled over to them. It was Merryn who grabbed him first, taking most of his weight and half carrying-half dragging him over to the medic tent.  They held up fingers to his eyes and he focused on them hard to give the correct number. It was then he felt the warm trickle of blood coming from his ear and sliding down his neck. Merryn’s eyes widened but the doctor made ‘calm down’ hands, which did almost end in her doing a violence. The doctor scrawled something on a pad then held it up to him. It said “perforated ear drums”. He nodded, though he didn’t completely understand. Those healed, right? He wasn’t like this forever. He could listen to music and his lover’s voices again. He tried to ask this but his tongue felt clumsy without being able to hear exactly how he sounded. He must have been at least a bit comprehensible though because the doctor gave him a thumbs up and held up a number of fingers Owyn assumed were either days or weeks until the healing was complete.  It occurred to him that this was a great excuse to not follow orders. He grinned and said what he thought was ‘thank you’. Merryn narrowed her eyes at his sudden glee, and with good reason.
___________________________________________________________
Field-Medicine in General 
Diesel had read a hundred stories that started like this. He was trying hard not to think of all the ones he knew that ended like this too. His back was propped against some Valterian rubble that might once have been a castle. He took his steady breaths, remembering all he knew about pain management. Peeking under his torn shirt, he saw the buckshot in his skin and grimaced. Not deadly but certainly not pleasant. Likely to get infected in this mud and horror. He breathed out steadily when he saw the white flash of medic armbands coming over the hill. Ignoring anyone with the volcorp sigil, two made straight for him, clasping bulky handheld bags that he assumed were medical kits. One skidded to a stop on his knees, the other taking a defensive position, peering over the wall and balancing a pistol against the stone with steady hands. The first medic opened his pack, revealing rows of neat white bandages, vials of bright coloured liquids and packets of sealed medical supplies. Diesel closed his eyes when the medic began to prepare to inject what was presumably painkillers - he didn’t like needles. You never really got used to them. He felt a sharp pinch near the series of holes, and he hissed through his teeth. A moment later though, warmth was flooding through his abdomen, chasing away anything that resembled pain. When that happened, he opened his eyes. The medic was wiping antiseptic over the wounds, plastic gloves tight on his hands. Then, tweezers to pull out the grit and the shot. With the distance of numbness, it was almost fascinating. The methodical movements, the small plink of metal being dropped in a petri dish. His blood had slowed to a steady trickle - perhaps there had been some anti coagulant in there as well. When the medic was satisifed, using tape (that would sting like a bitch when he peeled it off in the showers later) he packed and protected the wound, leaving a neat white square of gauze. Then other medic then looked down, and seemingly without words, helped her comrade to his feet. She retrieved Diesel’s gun, checking and loading it in fluid movements, then handing it back to him. Then they were gone, off to the next liberator. Diesel forced himself up and on his feet. Injury was no excuse not to carry on an attack. Pain was the best motivator there was, next to love. He gave a half hearted yell, just in case any cameras were on him, then vaulted over the wall to continue the assault.
________________________________________________________
Shirt Collar Shifting Just Enough To Have Bandages Peeking Out
The sea wind suited Henry. It tousled his dark hair and added red to his cheeks. He sat on top of a (firmly lashed) storage trunk, one arm resting on the rail of the ship, gazing out over the tossing waves apparently lost in his thoughts. The men working around him took little notice, apparently more than used to their employer’s air of distraction when at sea. When Alain came and sat opposite him, he started a little, coming back into himself. Then a smile appeared. “Good morrow Alain. Not seasick I hope?” Alain scoffed immediately, before realising that Henry was plainly teasing.  “No my lord. Though perhaps I am sick of the sight of scowling sailors.” “Oh, they’re not so bad.” Henry lent back a little, adjusting his position. The neckline of his slightly-too-large tunic shifted. The new stretch of skin had been covered by white linen, tightly bound. Alain shifted forward and touched it with gentle fingers, looking up at Henry’s face for signs of pain. “Injured?” “It’s nothing really.” He laughed a little, his own hand going to his shoulder as if just remembering the wound was there. “I sparred last night with some men. I can’t do it with dear Guy as he is too afraid he’ll hurt me, and besides, between you and me, I outmatch him. So on the other end of the scales is the mercenaries who far outpace me and occasionally get a little carried away.” “I could spar with you. I both won’t kill you and won’t let you win. The perfect combination.” Henry looked at him evenly for a long moment, evaluating. “Alright. But if I think for a moment you’re going easy on me, I shall be displeased.” Alain raised an eyebrow, challenging. “When have I ever made life easy for anyone?”
______________________________________________________________
Gentle Shushing
The night shifts always felt like she was trespassing in an ancient tomb. The beds were sarcophagi, the flickering candle she held a burning torch. She tried to walk as silently as possible, putting her heel down first and slowly letting the rest of her foot meet the floor. She pictured herself as nothing more than a ghost, a spectre moving unseen through the old house. Sometimes there would be more light in the form of moonshine coming in through the windows, but more often thick english clouds hindered that light too. 
The night was far from quiet. Whispering nurses, soldiers groaning in pain, praying from visiting priests and in the distance was the constant sound of the sea. Marjie knew by now which sounds could be helped and which ones could not. So when there was the sound of whimpering and shifting coming from one of the individual rooms, she spirited herself there with her light footsteps. When she entered the room, she was relieved to see no weeping sores, no worsening injuries. It was one of the men who’s mind was injured above all else. He had been having nightmares. Carefully, Marjie placed her candle on his bedside table and touched his hands, holding them tight so he could feel the warmth and pressure in the real world, not the battlefield of his dreams. “Shh Captain Stanley, you are in Britain now. You are safe.” His wild eyes took a moment to find her face. He searched it, looking for signs of mistruth. Finding none, he collapsed back onto his pillows but kept tight hold of one of her hands. Using a leg and some careful manoeuvring, she hooked one of the chairs intended for visitors and brought it close to the bed so she could sit and hold his hand all at once.  She then added her voice to the sounds of the night. She talked, softly, of things such as her sister, the families in the nearby village, the intricacies of jam making. Anything that filled the room with thoughts other than bombs and guns. Anything that could make her voice take on a lulling quality, as if telling a bedtime story. Only when the captain’s eyes closed and his grip slackened a little, did she consider stopping. She continued for just a little while longer, hoping her voice reached his dreams and turned them softer.
_____________________________________________________________
Needing Help To Drink From A Glass
It was like the world was a carousel. Every time she lifted her head or attempted to struggle into a sitting position, the room spun until she was obliged to lie back down again. The windows were alternately being thrown open and snapped closed as Rose requested fresh air and her mother demanded they be shut before her girl caught a chill. Luckily this sort of argument was not uncommon and the maids were more than used to it, only discretely rolling their eyes every time the mistress of the house stormed back in. Rose herself was a sweet child, if perhaps a bit simple, so none could begrudge a single thing she asked for. The housekeeper opened the door, usual frown firmly in place. She held a silver tray and on it were several bottles, medicine droppers and glasses. Rose groaned when she saw it, tossing an arm over her face. Paying no heed, the housekeeper set it down on the small walnut table beside the couch with a small click. Then she was gone from the room. Rose’s mother replaced her only moments later. In a lot of ways, the women were generally interchangeable. Both matronly, both with severe expressions and meticulously clean clothing. The difference was in their verbiage - Rose had never heard the housekeeper say more than three words in a row while her mother found it hard to limit herself to thirty in a single sentence. Even now as she bustled with the bottles, pouring a little into a glass, adding a dash of something thick, sprinkling in the contents of a pill, she talked. Rose dragged herself back to her body to try and listen.
“ - the new pharmacist girl is simply untenable. She dared to ask me if my list was on doctor’s orders. Luckily, Mr Brown arrived just in time to tell her to go and sweep the stock room. I suspect my little finger has more medical knowledge in her entire body. Sit up darling - “ “I can’t mama.”
For the first time, she looked at her daughter properly. Her eyebrows flew up into her hair as she took in the pale skin, trembling limbs and flushed cheeks. “Oh my petal, let mother help you -” She curved an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her up, taking her weight. With her free hand she retrieved the glass of medicine, now dark purple in colour. Rose wrinkled her nose but accepted the glass against her lips, drinking until her mother cooed her approval and took it away, rewarding her afterwards with a sweet glass of milk and gently placing her back against the cushions. Her mother tossed a blanket over her body and kissed her fevered forehead. Rose knew how this would go. She would get sicker and sicker and then she would throw up and sleep for a long time. When she awoke she would be weak and faint but she’d be cured. Until the next time she was sick, anyway. Which was always far too soon. ____________________________________________________________
Brushing Hair From Brow 
It was Bella who answered the door, taking a startled step back as Ash very almost tumbled in through the door frame. She managed to catch herself at the last moment, staying on her feet. She did not look well. One arm was curled tightly around her middle, her tights torn in several places, hair lank with dirt and sweat. Bella simply stood for a moment, dark eyes wide before she sprang into action, calling back into the flat for Alice. Alice appeared a moment later, wasting no time in going to Ash’s side. Between the two of them, they managed to get her inside and onto the sofa. She leaned back, mouth twisted in pain, eyes shut as she took a deep breath. “Sorry about not calling first. Phone ran out of battery.”  “Are you kidding? That’s what you’re worried about?” Bella had knelt next to her, hands ready but clearly not sure exactly what she should do. Hunters didn’t usually show up on her doorstep. Alice was rummaging through her bag until she found a small bottle of painkillers, tipping two into Ash’s hand. Ash swallowed them without water, giving Alice a grateful smile.  “What... exactly happened?” Alice asked, eyeing up the other woman.  “I got bit by - well, it’s unimportant. Not a werewolf is the main thing. I went back to my hotel to sleep but...” She tried to find the words for a moment before giving up, simply raising her shirt. On her ribs there was a bite mark. Not a particularly deep one and not one that was still bleeding. However the skin around it was a dark, angry red and the wound itself didn’t look... clean. “I think it might be infected.” “Well yeah, no shit.” Bella shook her head in disbelief. “I think I’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom. Alice - ?” “On it.” She came back a moment later with a small green bag. She unzipped it and frowned at the contents. “Okay. We’ve got... like some antiseptic wipes and a bottle of hand sanitiser.”  Ash half laughed. “That’ll do. Give.” She struggled out of her jacket and shirt, discarding them to the side. She took the small bottle, visibly braced herself and poured it over the bite before using the antiseptic wipes to clean up the excess. The painkillers she’d been given were evidently the good stuff as she only hissed twice. When she was done she lay back on the couch, eyes shut, almost looking asleep. The three of them sat for a moment. It was Bella who broke the silence. “How come... you came to us? Not the doctor.” Without opening her eyes, Ash replied. “Because... you wouldn’t give me a lecture. Or think I was stupid. I just... sort of needed that right now.” Alice sat beside her and leaned over, brushing a piece of hair away from her forehead. Bella took a hand from each of them and squeezed it tight. After a few more moments of silence, Alice and Bella realised this time Ash truly was asleep. She must have been more exhausted than she was letting on. It was almost peaceful, if not for the slight furrow between her eyebrows and the first aid kit resting against her thigh. Both of them, without speaking, decided not to move. Just for a little while.
_________________________________________________________
Collapsing Off Of Horse/Hurt one waking up to see the comforting one
Temperance was a natural on a horse. She had a knack with them, a way of coaxing and whispering to them just right. Nobody had ever seen her fall from one, not even when a stallion was spooked and reared up on it’s hind legs. She stayed seated and what’s more, soon brought the frightened creature to rein. There was something in her stern, serious manner that calmed even the most skittish ponies. So when she rode into the village, the horse only making it four steps towards the village square before she slipped from her saddle, landing heavily and without breaking her fall on the dirt path, the commotion was instant. One villager immediately called that their vestal had been cursed and was not herself. Another assumed that she was already dead. It was only when the doctor got to her, felt her temperature and said that she was gravely feverish that the clamour died down. Caleb was called for and she was carried into the hut near the church that was reserved exclusively for her use. He closed the door firmly behind him and the village had nothing to do but wait to see if Temperance pulled through.
*
Temperance was sick. She did not enjoy being sick. She particularly did not enjoy the fact she could not simply will her body better and was at the mercy of time to recover. It was one of the only things her will could not do.The lack of control was anathema to her. Her fever had spiked deep into the night and she had awoken sweaty, her deep discomfort not letting her fall back asleep. So she twisted this way and that, her mouth pressed into a grimace. She turned on her side and caught sight of somebody in the bedside chair. She recognised the silhouette instantly, not needing a light to know who held vigil.
Caleb had fallen asleep at some point. He had his head resting in his hand and by his feet two buckets, one empty and one filled with water, a rag resting on the rim.  It couldn’t have been a comfortable position. He was not a slight man and the chair was made for her. His back was curved. He must have been bored senseless, sitting, waiting for an awakening that hadn’t came. A mug of water sat ready on her beside chest and she guzzled it greedily, draining it easily. Then she rested the cool ceramic against her burning forehead, letting it cool her. It must have worked - she began to feel as if she could sleep. She stripped off one of the blankets and tossed it over her flagellant’s knees so he would not catch a chill. Then she turned over and buried her face in the pillows, eager for the embrace of a healing sleep. __________________________________________________________
Dramatic Injury Reveal 
They could feel the fabric of their dress sticking to their back. But they kept smiling. Kept accepting the paper flowers pressed into their hand, kept touching children that were offered up, blessing them. A saint could not appear impatient or unkind or harried. They could not hide their physical state of disrepair but they could pretend it didn’t bother them. They gritted their teeth and sparkled despite the pain. 
It was late when they finally fought their way back to the small set of rooms that had been set aside for them. Argento and Constantin were sharing but Cal had been given the honour of a single room. What’s more, it even had a sink tucked in the corner. Such luxury they had never seen on this planet in the fifteen years they lived on it. Now, as a visitor, they could only just appreciate it. As they stepped inside their room, one hand on the wall for support, they asked if a general servitor could be sent to them for a little while to help them get ready for bed. They would usually have asked Argento but this time, something stopped them. They didn’t want him to see the extent of their wounds before Cal had evaluated them personally.
Whe the servitor entered, Cal closed the door with a click and for the first time, let their smile drop and shoulders sag for a moment. They stumbled over to the bed, wincing with every step they took. An old story came to mind - something about a neverborn monster from the sea that imitated a human, but when they walked, every step felt like they were walking on knives. Cal rather suddenly found they had developed some sympathy for the monster. They sat on the edge of the bed and just breathed for a moment. Then they brought over the servitor and raised their arms for their dress to be stripped from them. The servitor did it in one fluid movement and Cal’s hands flew to their mouth, just preventing a scream. It felt like their skin had been peeled from their back, sticking to the fabric as it was pulled off. The servitor had let them dress drop to the floor and it was a mess of red and yellow. Cal’s head swam and they fought to stay conscious. A few moments passed, then a few minutes and finally they were clear enough to go over to the mirror over the sink.
Peering over one shoulder, they found that their assumption their skin had been stripped was not wholly incorrect. The combination of injuries taken from multiple victims had merged to create something horrid. Whippings had rendered their flesh into strips, chemical burns had taken half of it off and infection ran rampant. They were appalled at what they saw and didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. They settled for dozing on their stomach, hoping the air would dry out some of the open wounds and make the idea of cleaning it even slightly bearable. The thought of anything touching them at the moment made them feel faint.
The servitor looked on, dispassionate as Cal carefully manipulated themselves onto the bed. Cal didn’t even have the option of sleep to escape from this. Lack of sleep clung to them like a plague. They’d have to settle for a dark room and no demands or prayers. They lay down and listened to the golden voice that soothed them as much as painkillers would.
____________________________________________________________
Frantically Feeling For Breath Or Pulse
Cherry scrambled with clumsy speed to clamber down the wall, into the courtyard where his wife had tumbled, a particularly violent blast of magic making her lose her footing on the narrow roof just moments before. He felt his stomach drop as she did, a complete terror seizing hold of him. It was the type of fear that only someone who has loved and lost once before could imagine. Just because he got his love back, didn’t mean that fear faded.
When he got to her, she was lying still, her eyes closed. Her clothes were miraculously untorn from either magic or stone. Dust was settling around her, a few tiles from the roof scattered around like confetti. Cherry knelt by her side, pressing two fingers to the side of her neck. Nothing. Same on her wrist. Her chest didn’t rise and fall. His panic mounted and he shouted for help, knowing the others couldn’t be far away.
It was moments after this shout that she opened her eyes. All Cherry could do was look at her, stupidly.  “You’re not dead.” “No.” “I couldn’t find a pulse.” “Cherry.” She took his hand with an expression of infinite tenderness. “That’s because we’re magical ghosts, remember?” “Oh... Oh yeah.”
____________________________________________________________
“…you stayed?” “Of course I did.”
When the first set of drugs wore off, Astrid fell asleep. She had curled up in the corner of the bed, still fully dressed, knees up by her chest as if she could protect the wound there. It hadn’t really fully sunk in yet. She had nearly died, her heart had nearly stopped beating and she would have a scar down the center of her chest for the rest of her life. At the moment it was covered with layers of gauze and cotton, hiding the ugly stitching from the world. For now. 
She slept almost twelve hours, drifting in and out but never fully stirring. She heard Saints coming and going, so she must not have been at home. She couldn’t quite remember who’s house or bed she was in, but that wasn’t exactly an unnatural state of affairs. She found the sound of others comforting. If it was silent, that meant she was alone. If there was one thing Astrid despised being (other than sober) it was alone.
She awoke slowly. She felt as if she was climbing out of a deep pit, conciousness just slightly out of reach. When she finally clambered out, she wished she hadn’t. Her chest was aching, not a sharp pain, but a dull one that went bone deep. She wondered if they had cracked open her bones to get at her heart. She didn’t like the thought of that, it was too much like butchery. She only thought thoughts like that when she hadn’t had a pill in too long and it was this idea that made her open her eyes. She was surprised at what she saw.
She was in one of the boys’ bedrooms. You could tell because it smelt of boy and because there wasn’t a single glittery thing in the room, just socks on the floor and empty bottles. The surprising thing wasn’t this though - it was who was asleep in the armchair. Syn was there, eyes closed, breathing deeply. There was an empty glass by her foot and her handbag sat in her lap. She had been here a while. Warmth rushed through Astrid. See? She did care, after all. She was here.
______________________________________________________
The comforting one watching the hurt one sleep and feeling incredibly fond (tw; suicide references)
Alice did not look peaceful in her sleep. She still frowned, a small line between her eyebrows and her lips turned down. Worry followed her even into dreamland it seemed. But she did look smaller, all her hard edges and spikes smoothed down into something approaching soft. Her thumb rested gently on her lower lip and it was on this detail Cas was fixated. He wondered if she sucked her thumb as a child. He couldn’t imagine her young. She always seemed so adult, even since they were thirteen. She had a cynicism about her that was usually acquired much later in life.
They met when they were thirteen and he realised he loved her when they were fifteen. She had crept up on him but once he noticed it, he couldn’t stop noticing it. He felt his heart beat faster when their shoulders brushed, he listened to all the songs she mentioned and his concern for her matched the concern he had for his younger sibling. She must have known - she was too clever not to. But they never mentioned it and nothing changed between them. Cas quietly decided he would die for her and that was that.
He had driven her home from the hospital today. Her arms were wrapped like Egyptian mummies and she had lapsed into a sullen silence. He didn’t mind. They had done this before. He could do it to music. He took her home and she went to her room. He would make her tea and beans on toast, of which she would eat half and he would eat the other half. He would talk idly about whatever he was obsessed with at the moment, usually some band nobody had heard of or a new game he was trying to complete. The topic didn’t matter. Filling the air was. She would fall asleep and he would not leave her. At some point, after clearing up, he would climb in beside her and fall asleep too. He’d wake before her and he’d use that time to remind himself she hadn’t died. She was still safe. She was still here, despite her efforts to the contrary. The morning had come, the world kept on spinning. Nothing had ended. So he could live with it. Whatever else came. He took his friendship as seriously as a wedding vow. For better or for worse, in sickness or in health. This was worse. This was sickness. One day, it would be better.
___________________________________________________________
Stubbornly Standing Only To Have Their Legs Give Out And Being Hastily Caught
Bailey’s knees had taken a beating over the years, but this took the biscuit. She frowned, looking down at the mass of gravel, blood and mashed up flesh and decreed; “Huh.” In many respects (as it was with so many elements of her life) this had been her own fault. A boy had told her she couldn’t skateboard, she had declared that she could, downed half a bottle of vodka and told him to watch. As it was, he had been entirely correct. She was now sat on a low wall, the other half of the bottle held in her hand in lieu of any actual medicine. She swigged it as Towen crouched, looking at the damage. Towen was not squeamish by any means but even she had wrinkled her nose.  “Okay.” She announced, standing straight and pulling out her phone. “I’m getting us an uber to the walk in center.”  “What? Why?”  “Because moron, I think think you need like, antibiotics.” “It’s not that bad.” Bailey leaned forward, peering at her legs and the blood steadily trickling into her socks. Towen looked at her with an expression Bailey recognised. It was a mixture of unimpressed, bored and impatient. “Get off the wall and I’ll leave you alone.” “I don’t have to play your games.”  To this, Towen just raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. She internally began the count. She had only gotten to seven when Bailey declared ‘fine!’ and hopped off the wall. Towen sidestepped neatly as the other girl immediately buckled and hit the floor, miraculously managing not to spill a drop of vodka. Towen sighed and pressed a button on her phone, ignoring the groans from below. She peered at the small map and image of a car. “Okay, you have four minutes to get up. Use them wisely.” ________________________________________________________
“We Still Haven’t Settled Who’s Superior so Don’t You Dare Die On Me!”
This new pirate had lasted longer than the others. She was nimble and quick on her feet, good with a cutlass. She had less of the gold chains and heavy rings wearing her down, a common mistake for new captains. In fact, when gathered amongst her crew, only the long white feather in her hat marked her out as the leader. The first time Peter had fought her, he had mistakenly fed her first mate to the crocodile, on account of the purple velvet jacket he preened in. Easy mistake to make, anyone could have done it. He pretended it was on purpose of course, to send a message. He pulled it off. He thought.
Now though, feeding her to a crocodile was not really an option. He had been ambushed where he least expected the pirates to be - up in the mountains, clouds swirling around the rocks. He went up there often to think, spit off the side and survey his kingdom. He’d dispatched her two fellows easily, making them over balance and tumble down the side of the slope. There was a tiny chance they could have survived with only smashed bones, but it was pretty unlikely.
She had an elegant cut trailing underneath her cheekbone and he had a hell of a bruise forming across his ribs where she had kicked him into the sky. It had winded him more badly than he let on and this scrap had ceased being a game. His smile had not dropped but his eyes had a dangerous glint in them. He laughed easily as she swiped at him a few times. She fought like a predator, effortlessly sleek and calculating. Peter fought like it was what he was born to do, with a joy that lead him into cockiness. But can it be called cockiness if it was utterly deserved? We should not tell him so, for worry of increasing his ego, but he was perhaps the best swords-boy England had ever produced.
Her mistake came very late in the fight and through no fault of her own. She had taken a step back to avoid a piercing blow and set her foot on a stone that rolled away. She stumbled forward, failed to recover her stance and fell straight onto Peter’s blade. They both stood there, looking at each other in shock. The smallest trickle of red oozed from her mouth and she took a step backward, freeing herself from the sword. Blood gushed out of her as if she had a puncture. She fell and lay still.
Peter watched all this with some interest. He had no desire for the fight to be over yet - he had been enjoying himself immensely. He nudged her body with a dirty foot. “Do get up.” She did not oblige. He tutted and looked away, as if she just needed a moment without an audience. He nudged her again and her hand fell away from her chest. He frowned. The battle wasn’t supposed to be done. She was the best enemy he’d had in ages. Enemies were only supposed to die at the end of a great battles, where he and all the lost boys could cheer and know their victory was earned. This was not earned. This was an accident.
A feeling rose in his chest that he did not have a name for and his eyes watered. He decided to deal with this feeling the way he did any he did not understand. He would make-believe it was anger and in pretending, make it true. He huffed out his cheeks and kicked the body, furious. He decided to descend the mountain by foot rather than flying, both as a chance to sulk and as a chance for Neverland to make a new pirate queen. It wouldn’t be the same though. They weren’t all as good. But by the time he had gotten to the forest floor, he would have forgotten all about the captain with the quick feet.
___________________________________________________________
The Worst-Injured Character Half-Conscious And Begging To Know If The Others Are Okay
The stone floor was cold at first. She lay there, small stones digging into her back. She knew from experience that it was for the best that she didn’t try to move straight away. If she did, a wave of vertigo might hit her and she might throw up and ultimately caused more problems than it solved. So she stayed as still as she could, feeling the rise and fall of her chest. Cecile wondered if it would feel like this when she died. As slow, as comforting, as dizzying. She decided after a little while the coldness was almost certainly the same. 
After an indeterminate amount of time, she heard the scraping of the door against the floor and footsteps hurrying towards her. The new-comers words were a jumble in her ears that she couldn’t quite translate into sense, but she could get the jist when she felt two fingers press against her neck and an audible sigh of relief exhaled above her. When somebody propped her up into a sitting position, she decided it was safe to open her eyes.
The kitchen looked much like it did several hours ago. The fire had burnt down a little lower and the sunlight outside had faded into an inky blue. Next to her, a few spots of blood were speckled. Barely enough to notice. Her master was a very tidy eater. She blinked several times to clear the fuzziness from her vision then smiled at the two holding her. Other servants - friends, at a push. As much as anyone becomes friends when you’re terrified in the same room together. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy in her mouth when she asked “Is everyone alright?”
Simon (a handsome boy with unusually red cheeks and a mop of curled blond hair) stared at her for a moment, then barked out a laugh. “Cecile, are you alright?”  “Oh. Yes. A little dizzy.” “I should say so. How much did he take this time?” “Well, I didn’t want him to take it from the new squire - “ As they spoke, Simon and Theresa managed to get her on to her feet, one of them supporting each side of her. Luckily, the servant’s quarters were accessed from a staircase close to the kitchen, so they didn’t have to walk her too far. The stairs themselves were difficult, as they were narrow and Cecile was still deeply wobbly. Theresa managed to catch her when she slipped and the only other injury she received was a splinter. Her bed was as soft as a dream when she was helped into it. Simon slipped her shoes off and pulled the blanket over her. The entire household had learned how to treat a victim afterwards by heart. It was a routine now, like scraping ashes from the fireplace or changing the shoe on a horse. Someone else would cover Cecile’s morning duties without being asked as she slept off the blood loss. At least it was rarely fatal. The master was too clever for that. Who wanted to constantly be finding new servants?
__________________________________________________________ 
Taking Off Shirt To Change Bandages
Thomas cooed at his ghoul. The poor boy’s cheek was a vista of bruises and grazes. It had almost healed, but was still tender. Thomas tested this, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone then gently pressing. He removed his hand when the man (Christian? Jonathan? Something pedestrian) whimpered. 
“Let me change those bandages darling.” He liked play acting at caring. He could very almost see the appeal. It was a different form of power. An illusion of sweetness under which the steel of healing and hurt lay. He gently unbuttoned the shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to show the linen bandages tied tight beneath. 
It was Christithans own fault. In a way. Some other kine had insulted his bearing. Thomas was perfectly content to ignore the bleating of cattle. The ghoul on the other hand, half mad with love and promises of immortality had stood, sending his bar stool clattering to the ground. A scuffle ensued and he was stabbed, just below the ribs. Any major organs had managed to avoid puncture so it was only his ego that was truly damaged. Thomas had been sure to tell his pet how very well he had done.
The bandages were mostly clean when pulled off, just a little blood and yellowing serum directly above the wound. The stitches were clumsily done but competently. There would be a scar. Thomas could not remember the last time he had been injured so was fascinated with the cut. He gently ran his fingers over it, feeling the roughness and fragility there. He would barely have to curve his fingertips and he could rip him open like gift wrap. 
He resisted the urge, somehow, and bandaged Christithan’s chest back up, though not particularly well. The ghoul looked at him with such adoration it almost repulsed him. He wouldn’t last much longer. Love was boring. He liked a little challenge, a little push back, spite. Ghouls never lasted long. He needed someone on his level. He needed a real enemy or a real lover or both. He kissed the top of the bandages and let his eyes linger on the blank expanse of the neck.
_______________________________________________________________
Smoldering Sexy Gentleness 
The paladin woke in a grey place. For as far as the eye could see, grey fog rolled over grey dirt. Trees bare of leaves stood like stark exclamation points against the cloudy sky. There were some stones scattered here and there. In the distance, there was a promise of mountains. And in front of her, there was a woman. 
She was beautiful.  She had long, straight black hair. She had wide grey eyes. She wore a long, featureless grey dress that could have been made out of the sky. Her skin had a pallor to it that was reminiscent of the ill or tired. Certainly, her eyes had dark circles under them, almost like bruises. She sat with her knees up against her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Rings glittered on her fingers, the only points of colour in this dull place. She was watching her, intently.
When she realised she was awake, she got to her feet. She had a dancer’s elegance and her feet were bare. They left shallow footprints in the dirt. She knelt by the fallen knight. The paladin noticed, for the first time, a small bowl of water and a clean white cloth waiting beside her. Without saying a word, she smiled a soft smile and began cleaning the wounds that had just started to smart. The water rapidly turned a murky pink as blood and dirt were rinsed into it. The paladin realised she could not realise exactly how she had come to be here or indeed how she had come to be hurt. She looked up to find the woman was looking into her eyes. The touch at her temple was gentle but the look in the woman’s eyes was not. It was like looking into a fire that burned not red, but grey. They were mesmeric and it occurred to the paladin for the first time who this stranger might be. The paladin found herself wondering if she could kiss her but the moment quivered and broke. The wounds were cleaned and when she was done, the woman rested damp hands on her knees. “Now. What do you wish my darling?”
______________________________________________________________
Platonic Tender Gentleness
“Ow.” “I know.” Mel moved the packet of frozen peas, peering at the lump on Trick’s forehead. “I think it’s going down.” “I knew we shouldn’t have skipped that fucking first aid session in March. What if I have concussion?” Trick had one eye scrunched up, mouth twisted in an unhappy line. “Um... How many fingers am I holding up?” “Three. I think. My glasses are a bit fucked.” He took them off his face, inspecting the crack in the right lens that spread across it like a spiderweb.  “I don’t think you’re concussed. But like, let’s not sleep for a while anyway.” Mel sighed. Part of the sigh was because of how very routine all of this was, how easily they fell into nurse and patient. Without a word, both of them glanced at the calendar on the wall. Only a month and a half to go. Then they would be free from school, free from these kids, able to abandon everything if they wanted to. The freedom of adulthood wasn’t going somewhere, it was leaving somewhere. Mel removed the ice pack and rummaged in her bag until she found a battered plaster in bright primary colours. She put it over the now much reduced lump and kisses his forehead. “There. All better.” Trick nodded gratefully. “Thanks Mel. Maybe you should become a nurse or something.” “Fuck no.” “Yeah, you’re right. You’d be a dreadful nurse.” ______________________________________________________________
Waking Up Bandaged In Somebody Else’s House 
The first thing that surprised him was that the air did not smell of smoke, or sweat or dirt. The air was slightly artificially sweet as if everything had been sprinkled with fabric softener. When he opened his eyes, he realised that was almost certainly the case. He wasn’t in some grubby student house or an abandoned flat. The sofa he was laid out on was soft, a knitted throw underneath him. The room was pleasantly dim, the main light coming from the morning sun coming in through a double glass door leading onto a small, but perfectly kept back garden.
He had woken up in nice houses before. Usually white and minimalist, all clean surfaces and achievements speckled on the walls. Those houses made his pulse hitch. If he had woken up there, something bad was either about to or had already happened. The type of men that had houses like that were not good men. This house was different. It was warm and lived in, cluttered but not untidy. There was a small movement in the corner and what he had previously written off as a cushion turned out to be a spectacularly plush cat who looked at him with disinterest before going back to sleep. 
He sat up and winced. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, flexing his hand then stretched, doing an inventory of his aches and pains. His right arm was sorer than usually, it feeling almost bruised despite the fact his skin was clear. Faintly, a memory came back to him of the unpleasant agony of a joint being put back into place. A dislocation - nothing to particularly worry about. There were evidently no trapped nerves and no broken blood vessels. And it had been bound with expert care with a layer of sports bandages. As he looked around the room, his eyes fell on the coffee table sitting in front of the sofa. There was a glass of water, a packet of painkillers, ice spray and a note. He leaned forward, picked up the note with two fingers and unfolded it. It read; “Hi! You’re probably wondering what you’re doing here. Me and my boyfriend saw you get thrown out of a bar and you seemed in a bad way so we brought you here. The front door is unlockable easily, but if you want to stay for breakfast, you’re more than welcome! There’s a shower upstairs, second door on the left and food in the fridge. Sleep well. - Amelia.”
He squinted at the paper. Nobody was this nice. This couldn’t be for real. This had to be some Hansel and Gretel shit surely. He sat for a moment, wondering what the catch was. After a minute, he slid back down on the couch. He would sleep a little longer and if he was eaten, he was eaten. He was willing to take a lot of risks for a hot meal and a bed to sleep on. 
__________________________________________________________
Soft and Funny Comfort After Painful Hurt
Tommy wandered in, dropping his backpack in its usual hallway place. One hand was clamped over his eye, making his walk a little unsteady. Jones looked up from the kitchen table, sighed, and grabbed a tea towel, running it under cold water.
“What did you do?” “W-why do you always assume I’ve d-d-done something?” She simply raised an eyebrow and prised his hand away from his eye, peering at it for a moment before placing the cold compress on it. “Am I wrong?” “No... You shouldn’t b-bother too much. I’ll heal in a minute. Perks of immortality.” “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt in the mean time.” She gave him yet another look, one that hearkened back to one of their myriad conversations on how he handled (or rather didn’t) his own pain. “The cold will help.” He exhaled. “Turns out that like, some of the m-minor monsters in the Labyrinth aren’t very socialised.” Jones took a step back. “Tommy. Did you... try to pet a monster?” “No! W-well. Maybe! A bit! I didn’t realise it was a monster!” “If it’s in the Labyrinth, it’s a monster!” “I was in the Labyrinth!” The silence held for a moment before they both burst out laughing. Tommy gained his breath back first. “God, if we were in a m-movie, that would be the bit where you looked at m-me significantly and we have a whole like, Batman moment.” “I think if we were in a movie, our lives would make a lot more sense.” “We’d be endgame.” “We’re letting our fans down.” “Good. If we still have fans, I think we’ve been d-doing it wrong.” He removed the cold compress and blinked. As predicted, his eye was completely healed, not even a smudge of bruising remaining. “It’s fun being your sitcom roommate.” “You too bro.” ________________________________________________________________
The Rough Holding The Injured Soft And Breaking Down Over Them
Nymeria had never looked more of a soldier than she had in this moment. One knee planted to the ground, blocking the unconcious woman behind her. Her sword was raised, her hood was up and her teeth were bared like a wolf. All trappings of her usually ordered form had fallen away. All there was was the need to protect. And for once, it worked. The Ollath flittered away, choosing to find some easier quarry. When they were out of sight, she exhaled, arms falling down and her other knee joining hers in the dirt. After a moment, she turned to the woman, pulling her into her arms.
Her breathing was shallow but it was there. Nymeria curled around her, as if by holding her she would be a shield. It was when her eyelashes fluttered that Nymeria broke. Her breath hitched and her eyes filled with tears. She had so little in this world, had lost so much in the war and then the retreat. She could not bear to lose her wife. Every time she was hurt, her heart stopped. Every time she woke in the night and turned over in her sleeping bag and her wife was not automatically beside her, she feared the worst. She knew this fear was making her paranoid, making her anxious. But she could not stop. It was hard to tell your brain it’s caution was unneeded when it already had had it’s worst fears come true.
Her wife opened her eyes, smiled and cupped her cheek. Nymeria tried to smile back. It wasn’t a matter of if she would lose her, but when.
______________________________________________________________
The Soft Holding The Rough Injured With The Spark Of  Rage In Their Eyes. 
He was not usually his brother’s keeper. That was, in fact, usually his brother’s job. Elias was always the protected, the safe, the weaker. That was okay. He was content with his role in life. He was clever and quick and magical but he was not strong. Sol had guardianship right down to his bones. 
Now he had one hand on his chest, letting the magic flow through him, knitting his wounds back together. His other hand was thrown out towards the wolf that prowled. He closed his eyes and focused. There was a whimper and a wet sound and suddenly the wolf was fleeing, back into the woods, away from dangerous humans. He wasn’t sure that injury was proportionate. Magic wasn’t an exact science, especially not blood magic. It was messy and feral and instinctual. Not usually in his nature. He supposed that’s why he mastered it. A pressure valve for all his unkindness, his fury and fear.
Sol sat up, bemoaning the state of his ripped shirt. Elias let his hands fall, his posture soften. He clambered to his feet and attempted to haul Sol up with him, very nearly unbalancing himself and sending him rolling down the steep hill. The strength was gone again, settling back into his blood with no complaint or resistance.
____________________________________________________________
Holding Hands And Eye Contact To Endure Through Pain 
Maeve could have sworn she felt her ribs creak. Her mother wound the laces tighter around her fists and tugged again. The corset tightened around her waist, pressing a small exhale of breath out of her. She hated this. She hated corsets. They made her feel claustrophobic, as if she had been locked in a closet. She hated how when she untangled herself later, she had red stripes painted down her side and indentations that didn’t fade for hours. She braced herself, putting her hands down on the edge of the bureau. She glanced across the silver hairbrushes, the delicate combs, the number of paints and perfumes she was expected to know the function of. She wanted to dash it all to the ground, all these useless trappings to make her into a princess when she was a toad.
Her eyes raised to the mirror and she found that her mother was watching her reflection. She held the eye contact steadily, not blinking. She didn’t want her mother to know how much this hurt. She held her breath and bit her lip, hands tightening on the varnished wood.
She very almost managed not to wince, but at the final tug, she did. Her mother didn’t look disappointed or angry or any of the things Maeve would have predicted. Instead, after she had tied the bow, her hands went to her daughter’s shoulders, squeezing very gently. Maeve realised that she must have to do this to herself every day, perhaps only with a maid or a doorhandle to help. Nobody to soothe her afterwards, nobody to insist it was for the best. Struck with sudden compassion, she span around and threw her arms around her mother, peppering her face with kisses, soulfully meant. 
Both of them were unexpected people.
____________________________________________________________
Insisting That No, They’re Still Too Hurt
Byron was by means of direct comparison, the brains of Stryker Monster Hunting inc. This did not by any means mean he was clever. But next to Constantine, he had an inch more common sense. He had insisted on bed rest after they had escaped from that horrid place with their lives but quite a few injuries between them. They’d managed to loot enough they could afford an inn for a hithero unimagined number of days.
He lay next to his husband and admired his strong countenance. His noble jaw, his stately nose, his furrowed brow. He looked all the handsomer for the small amount of bruising along a high cheekbone. He raised a hand and traced a pattern along his skin. The morning light felt all the sweeter for not being chased by pigfolk or rats biting at their ankles. 
He leaned over and kissed him. Constantine sleepily opened his eyes and smiled. This was his favourite sort of wake up and Byron knew it. He wrapped his arms around the slighter man, bringing him on top of him and peppering him with kisses. 
It was at this point Byron squeaked with pain. Constantine immediately loosened his arms. “Darling?” “I’m fine. Don’t stop.” Constantine raised an eyebrow in suspicious. “It sounded like you were hurt.” “Nope, it’s all good.” He made a valiant attempt to kiss him again.  Constantine dumped him unceremoniously back on his side of the bed. “You need rest.” “No, I need attention.” “Well. I will give you all the attention you need. Breakfast in bed, a hot bath... “ “That’s not what I was thinking.” Constantine smiled. “I know. But...” He poked Byron in the side and watched him recoil, groaning. “Point proven.”
________________________________________________________________
Loopy On Pain Meds 
How did any of the classic poets get any work done? One dose of morphine and he was completely knocked on his ass. He was pretty sure that if he tried to write a single thing, it wouldn’t even be words, it would be vague squiggles. For all his other vices, Drew was relatively clean on the drug usage front. He preferred to drink his problems away and had quite a palette for wine. And so, this sensation was not familiar. 
It turns out that foot fractures could be quite painful when healing. Especially if you tended to go out as much as he did. He hated staying at home and despised feeling weak. Therefore, the recovery was taking even longer than usual. The doctor had given him a prescription of the strong stuff in a valiant attempt to help him sleep. 
Now he was lying on his couch, feeling like the room was a boat, gently ebbing and flowing. He was fairly certain if he sat up or moved his head at all, he would throw up. The aim of the game was to stay completely and utterly still. He decided, in his state of inertia, to wonder how the hell anyone could consider this pleasurable. Especially when his wine was a whole arm length away and therefore inaccessible. This could not be borne. 
This, Drew mused, is exactly why people have butlers.
______________________________________________________________
Diagnosis
Ada wanted to scream. Yet another medic poking at her knee and making intelligent thinking noises. Yet another one advising against the use of magic to mend whatever damage the Druj had wrought upon it. Yet another useless professional taking her gold and not solving the problem. The idea of her body refusing to obey her, of money not fixing a problem was very nearly unbearable. This was not how things were meant to work for her. 
She collapsed back on her bed, avoiding looking at the traitorous limb. It twinged, as if in apology. It was particularly smarting after her trip to Anvil, the place where she needed to be most mobile of course. She didn’t like having limits. She didn’t like having to be careful. She didn’t like physical needs taking away from the games her mind played.
She struggled into a sitting position and rang the bell next to her bed, summoning Marie to bind her knee back up. She would simply wear long dresses and skirts and consult another magician. There had to be something that would fix it. Even if she had to beat the knowledge out of every single horrid foot-soldier of the Druj.
________________________________________________________________
Childbirth 
She had never felt so tired. She was shaking a little, every muscle similtanously wailing and celebrating out the exhaustion she had put them through. Her skin was coated with a sheen of sweat and she wondered if this was actually what people meant when they described pregnancy as glowing. She didn’t feel particularly glowing, with her hair stuck to her skin and her hands shredded from the nails pressing into her palm. Her voice too sounded more like a croak than anything divine. The tv shows were not kidding about the amount of yelling you wanted to do. She raised her head, somehow, against all odds. The doctor caught her gaze and smiled, whispered something to the nurse. James was smiling too, so it must have been okay. She must have done well. Her heart soared when she realised she could hear the crying, thin but strong.
The nurse brought her her baby. Impossibly tiny. Impossibly beautiful. She held him close to her chest, fascinated by the lines on his face. Fascinated by the hand that gripped her finger. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry more or scream with happy laughter, to dance through the streets and show everybody what was hers now, what she had made.
For the moment, she was content to simply hold him. The dancing could wait. So could the crying (though not on his part evidently). She was unwilling to do anything that might disturb this perfect moment. Perfection didn’t have to be clean and shiny. It could be sweaty and exhausted too.
3 notes · View notes
jo2ukes · 5 years
Text
self care is writing 3h drabbles at work!!!!!! (timeskip spoilers sort of)
“Felix!” Ingrid shouts above the clash of steel. Her eyes dart to his left, and he steps to his right, dodging an axe coming down on him. She smirks in a very Ingrid way before letting concern take over her face again. Concern was the expression she wore most often, which was so different from their days as children.
 “I’ve got it from here,” she says, “I should be able to push them back. You move on ahead—Sylvain is getting overwhelmed.”
He nods, throwing her a quick look of gratitude, before continuing to cut a path forward. Sylvain wasn’t joking in his letters when he said the Empire was determined to fell House Gautier. There were a handful of them, nobles, that clung steadfastly to their vows of fealty to the Prince. It came as no surprise to anyone that Gautier, Fraldarius and Galatea were among the few.
 Apparently, it came as no surprise to the Empire either.
 In the short years after Edelgarde had declared her war, the attacks on each of their Houses had been unrelenting and only mounted as other Kingdom Houses fell under the pressure. It seemed stupid, risking their lives like this for a beast who was presumed dead. Felix knew he wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t be. Odd as it sounded, it was one of the only things keeping him clinging to hope. Keeping all of them clinging to hope.
 “You’re late,” Sylvain calls, cutting into his thoughts. “I almost thought you’d forgotten about me,” he winks. His demeanor is calm, contrasting with the wild swings of his lance.
 “Shut up,” Felix groans, but he can’t hide the smile creeping at the corner of his lips. “I could hardly forget about someone as obnoxious as yourself.”
 They’d all been separated in the chaos at the Monastery. It took months for the dust to settle and for correspondence to reach anyone, but all of their classmates were alive. Dimitri being the only one in question at this point. Well, Dimitri and the professor…
 Felix grits his teeth, shutting off his thoughts. No point in dwelling on the professor now. There’s been no word from or of the professor for the past four years. Or has it been five? No matter. The only thing of importance is the task at hand.
 His attention turns to his blade, dancing in circles around Sylvain’s more or less stationary position from horseback. The two of them work well together, and the numbers around them start to dwindle. Those from the Empire who are left standing quickly realize their best course of action is to flee back to their Empress and die another day. In his academy days, Felix might have chased them. It’s not victory if it’s not absolute, he used to think. Now he knows, sometimes living for the next battle is victory enough.
 And so, he lets the Empire scum run, turning his attention back to Sylvain, but keeping his eyes trained on the distance, should their enemies decide to regroup and ambush them while their guard is down. Ingrid has rejoined the group as well, dismounted from her Pegasus, and is listening intently to Sylvain’s conversation with the merchant troupe they were protecting. Though running supply lines between Gautier, Fraldarius and Galatea is dangerous, there are still a handful of caravans loyal to the Kingdom and willing to make the journey. If their lines are cut off, there’s no telling how much longer any of the Houses could stand on their own. Luckily, among Kingdom territories, merchants are largely seen as neutral parties, so the only real threat comes from Empire troops.
 “—And of course, we appreciate House Fraldarius’ assistance in securing our safety as well,” the merchant’s voice interrupts Felix’s thoughts and Felix pulls his gaze away from the tree line.  The merchant bows deeply, gratitude etched into his face.
 “Think nothing of it,” Felix says, giving a curt nod in response. “Without the support of the merchants we are—“
 “Vile dogs!” A voice calls from behind them. An Empire solider has returned. Alone. Foolish.
 Wordlessly, Felix unsheathes his blade, intending to make quick work of the straggler before anything else can be done. From the corner of his eye, he sees movement from the tree line, but his only option is to follow through with his initial attack.   A flash of blonde hair and Ingrid is at his side, knocking away the volley of arrows raining down on them. A flash of red hair, and Sylvain is heading for the tree line, archers fleeing from his javelin attacks, Gautier soldiers following behind to prevent their escape.
It all happens in a flash, Sylvain turns to give them a thumbs up and a wink, opens his mouth to say something stupid, but only lets out a gurgle. An arrow has lodged itself in his neck.
 With a roar, Ingrid takes off after the archer she believes responsible. Without thinking, Felix rushes forward, catching Sylvain in his arms. Sylvain tries to speak again but Felix hushes him, laying him on the ground and resting his head in his lap. He doesn’t know much about medicine or healing, and it was unfortunate they were caught without anyone with expertise in either subject.
 “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you,” Felix says firmly, though his hands shake more with each passing moment. Sylvain is already pale. “This is going to hurt,” he winces, placing his hands firmly on the arrow shaft in Sylvain’s neck. It didn’t go all the way through, which could potentially be a good sign- again, he didn’t know much. “Sorry,” he mutters, before taking a breath and snapping the length of the shaft off. Sylvain cries out- not a sound Felix hears often, nor cares to hear. Instead, he busies himself with more shushing and uses his teeth to rip off a part of his own robe before wrapping it as gently as possible around Sylvain’s wound and the small hint of arrow still poking through.
 Ingrid runs back, out of breath.
 “The last of them are gone,” she pants. “How is he?” She kneels and takes Sylvain’s hand in her own, biting her lip as she assesses the damage. “Sylvain, you need to stay awake,” she pats his cheeks gently, getting him to flutter his eyes and at least maintain consciousness.
 “There’s nothing else we can do for him here,” Felix says, “We need to get him back to House Gautier as quickly as possible.”
“I’ll fly him,” Ingrid nods, helping Felix pull Sylvain to his feet. “See if that merchant has any salve he can spare, I’m sure Gautier’s supplies are running low. Meet us back there. I’ll see you soon.”
----
  “He’s been asleep most of the day,” Ingrid says, standing from her chair by Sylvain’s bed. “He chats a bit when he’s awake, you know Sylvain,” she laughs lightly, mostly to hide her concern. “Thank the goddess we were there,” she adds after a pause.
 “Only an idiot would go charging off like that” Felix mutters, crossing his arms.
 “Well, you know Sylvain,” she offers a smile, and gently squeezes his arm. “I should change his bandages before you take the next shift.”
 “Get some rest,” Felix says, shaking his head “I’ll watch over him from here.”
 Ingrid yawns and softly offers thanks before making her way out of Sylvain’s room. There is a stillness that settles over the room, the fire crackling softly, and it’s almost peaceful. Sylvain’s breath still sounds pained, but his condition has certainly improved over the past couple of days. The fact that he’s been awake and talking with Ingrid was a better sign still.
 Felix busies himself with bandage preparation. The clean bandages are kept in a basket at the foot of Sylvain’s bed, along with a jar of salve. Which went directly on the wound, not on the bandage, Ingrid’s voice reminds him in his head. She knew more than basic field dressings, though her knowledge was almost as limited as Felix’s. She’d studied a bit back in the academy, helping out professor Manuela when she had a moment. She always claimed, even though she would have to give up the battlefield for the sake of her family, healing knowledge may still come in handy.
 “There was a change in the guard, huh?” Sylvain’s voice is scratchy, yet somehow still possesses it’s lilting quality. Felix turns to stare at his friend for a moment, an abundance of emotions swelling up in his chest. Most of them were confusing or foreign, but the one he was most easily able to identify was rage. Always a safe emotion to fall back on. His decision to settle on rage must have played across his face, because Sylvain’s expression fell ever so slightly. Felix ignored him and put the bandages on the bedside table before turning back to retrieve the salve. He poured some into a small bowl, pursing his lips.
“You’re mad,” Sylvain observes.
 “What were you thinking, charging in by yourself like that?”
 “Well, I wasn’t, really,” Sylvain shrugs, wincing slightly. “I’m an idiot, or so I hear,” he winks.
 “Now isn’t the time for any of your stupid jokes,” Felix scoffs. “You could very well be dead, you know.” He turns back to Sylvain.
 “Aw, come on, I’ve been close to death loads of times. It’s gonna take more than a handful of Empire cronies to put me out of my misery, you know that. In fact,—”
 “—Listen to me, Sylvain,” Felix interrupts, slamming the bowl of salve down on the table by the bed. “You could be dead. You’ve never been this close to death before.”
 “It’s a war, you’re going to lose people—“
 “—not you. I’m not going to lose you, do you understand?”
 Sylvain falls silent for the first time. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, a slight blush settling into his cheeks. Felix moves to pick up the bandages from the table, continuing his lecture.
 “Ingrid was beside herself, carrying you back here like that, all full of arrows. You’re not invincible and it’s time to start acting like it. It matters if you die. Not because you have a Crest, or because you have more people to flirt with. Ingrid needs you here. I need you here.”  He motions for Sylvain to sit up.
 “Careful, Felix. You’re coming dangerously close to showing emotion.”
 “Teasing the person that has the power to make your neck wound very much worse as opposed to very much better isn’t the wisest of ideas.”
 Sylvain smirks in response, holding relatively still while Felix applies salve and fresh bandages. His neck already does look much better. It’s probably only a matter of time before he’s on his feet again, which is just as well. There’s plenty to be done. Not to mention their class reunion looms. It seems a silly thing now, going back to the ruins of the monastery to fulfill a childish pact, but a promise is a promise. Seeing classmates after so long would be a pleasant note in an otherwise torturous period. And an ally is always an ally. Coordinating their movements and their plans to take back the Kingdom would be that much easier after reuniting.
 He finishes re-wrapping Sylvain’s neck, his eyes lingering on his friend’s face. The two of them had seen such sadness, but Sylvain wore it well. He almost looked as though he hadn’t aged a day since their time at the academy. His eyes were still full of light and he was always smiling- almost as though he had no idea a war was going on at all. He catches himself staring, and drops his eyes to the floor.
 “Hey,” Sylvain says, catching one of Felix’s hands in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. Felix looks up. “Thanks,” he says, “for everything.”
 Things may look hopeless, but if they had each other, maybe there was some possibility things would still turn out okay in the end.
 Wordlessly, Felix squeezes Sylvain’s hand in return.
14 notes · View notes
Text
fe3h blogging 2 because the post got too long
Edelgard Claude foiling. Both see that the world is wrong and that motivates them to make it better. Claude listens to people, Edelgard listens to herself. Claude reflects and introspects, Edelgard doesn’t.
I was going to write more but I realized I was just bashing Edelgard so I stopped. Anyways, the Gatekeeper has a backstory??? a younger twin brother and they’re from the empire?? Also wow Edelgard is REALLY into you (the light in the darkness pft)
I also want to comment how the Church of Seiros unlike some other fantasy religions really is like real life historical (and current) religious organizations. There’s a mix of people from the non believers but there to help, to those that believe this is the best way to help people, to those looking for power, to the people who are there because its a way to make a living. I want to make clear though that Sothis/The Goddess is dead and she can only act a little bit through Byleth. Before the game The Goddess has NO influence on Fodlan. Anyone praying is doing nothing in terms of reaching The Goddess.
Hilda: Tell me what I’m thinking about right now.
Ferdinand: Hmm... You want a snack.
Hilda: I DO want a snacc ;) ;) ;)
supports: Ashe Dedue, Sylvain Felix, Ingrid Dimitri, Hubert Ferdinand, Petra Claude, Marianne Ignatz
3h totally fooled me with the hair colors. I’m too use to JRPGs have rainbow haircolors so I think nothing of it but in this game the white/green hair are plot significant.
Somehow related to dragon shenanigans(white/green): Sothis, Lysithea, Flayn, Edelgard, Byleth, Rhea, Seteth
Plausibly a normal color with weird undertones: Ignatz, Shamir, Petra, Felix, Lindhardt,
That inexplicably JRPG colored hair: Bernadetta, Hilda, Caspar, Marianne, Ashe, Lorenz
Ch14 of Crimson Flowers has made me unfathomably sad. Claude hold himself so tightly, closed off with high walls. He always has a face on, doesn’t break composure. But in ch 14 in the face of losing his dream you can see the cracks in walls. And Claude may be closed off but he is in no way cold hearted or uncaring, he cares so much and you see that as the Empire gains ground. That battle is one of the few glimpses of Claude. Whether he is killed or spared, both are sad. The cut scene after Claude is spared is seemingly lighthearted and a tonal contrast to the serious battle right before it. Without knowing Claude better it seems like a breather before more plot happens, but knowing Claude that scene really breaks my heart. In contrast with the moments of honesty during the battle, Claude’s social mask has snapped right back into place, hiding all of his pain. Claude’s dream meant all to him, being able to walk side by side with his friends in a new world, and that dream just took a devastating blow. Claude is by no means dishonest during that scene, but knowing how devastated he is on the inside yet forcing himself to hold it all together... He’s sad and now I’m sad.
The Insurrection of the Seven is fascinating to me. Just because people keep saying different things about it. Was the Emperor seeking to consolidate power for the throne and the nobles stopped him or where the nobles always seeking to turn the Emperor into a puppet ruler? To my limited knowledge I think for a while Emperors had been losing power. Enough so that the experiments on Edelgard and her siblings could not be stopped. He then tried to expand his power and was crushed.
Crimson Flower is quite interesting. Edelgard and Hubert are walking a fine line balancing the church and the Agarthans. The Empire appears unified but its a shell for the Agarthans and Edelgard is betting on the appearance of that shell.
Wow Dimitri is surprisingly sane and not feral in CF. Does the purple clouds in Dimitri’s death CG remind anyone else of the S support CGs?
Lysithea and Edelgard can bond over shared childhood experiences and being short
Can you imagine Claude, Hilda, and Sylvain as a squad. They would radiate such chaotic energies just standing next to each other that Nemesis would leap out of his cyberpunk containment pod and start dancing to leek spin
How is Dimitri clean shaven post timeskip?? Most people in the grips find it hard to be functional and do basic tasks and your telling me he meticulously shaves everyday? I'm calling it. Dimitri is trans and can't grow a whisker
So the brits (and w europe really) went mad for tea and got it through colonization of india. Where does fodlan get its tea?? Its mostly too cold unless you want to convince me theres an extensive breeding program for hardy cultivars somewhere. Dagda?? We know coffee is imported. hot take: the empire started a war to get more tea
I dont talk about dorothea enough. I almost chose BE just for her. She hates nobles and its great. The voice acting is top notch too. Dorothea-Ferdinand c support is memorable to me because of the voice acting. The line delivery was so good. Especially the  " I hate you " from Dorothea. She's so savage. She was the only one I considered S supporting after intsys robbed me of claude. Didn't go through with it though. It always feels wierd romancing fictional characters.I remember how P3 forced me on the harem route and wow that was uncomfortable. Dorothea is kind. I like kind people. She's so full of love (Manuela is the other character overflowing with love), and her compassion extends to everyone. She understands the grief of war. Contrast that to local manlet Caspar. Once he's decided someone is an "enemy" he stops caring. Oh Caspar... All of Dorothea's supports are so good too... Dorothea's backstory can get a little disturbing. She's 18 at the beginning of the game. She began singing with the company at 10 and gained fame at 13. What troubles me his how she talks about how after every show she was innundated with marriage proposals and such. The way she talks about it, it went on for a while, and while sure the letters and stuff could have been from other teenagers, that she was getting all this as a teenager is creepy. In addition, then she talks about the nobles fawning over her and it made my skin crawl. But the worst was  that a noble possibly her father was coming on to her . Like Dorothea, I'm with you. Let's burn down the world.  Despite the justifiable anger though, dorothea is so full of love. Until the last her heart never turns cold.
Thinking about claude and edelgard. On one hand their personalities, ideals, and ambitions complement each other. On the other hand Edelgard doesn't understand how people work and Claude is a manipulator, guarded, he never lets any one in(edited)Claude can totally read her, but Edelgard reacts poorly to criticism and dissent.... Claude has no faith. Not in his dreams and not in himself. With out a push, he's not proactive. Edelgard charges straight ahead while Claude takes the circuitous path. "Defensive" thats the word for edelgard, she so easily thinks people are out for her. Whereas claude deflects. Both are fuelled by a sense of justice.  Edelgard thinks in terms of eliminating enemies, claude thinks in terms of recruiting allies.  The point is the the tragedy that they would make great friends! But thats not happening in this universe! Because edelgard's bull headed and claude wont open up!
Watching s supports and anyone notice theres 3 variations on the ring.  There 2 silver and green ones. At first I thought small green stone was from people with common origins and big stone from noble. But I just saw saw one with a gold ring.It could be that the character is just that extra. And yeah it is gold is from Ferdinand and Lorenz.
Ferdinand  was so obnoxious at first. But hes such a good boy. He does his best. He's trying very hard. Also, existential angst is my jam.
I just remembered theres only 5 saints in the Church of Seiros and does that mean the tome of comely saints has erotica of... like... cihol??? And cethaleann????? Uuuuuuhhhhhh...I dont like my brain sometimes.
so that whole fuss that byleth's mom was rhea's daughter was because tons of "gamers" chose BE first and misinterpreted Edelgard's speculation. When in reality Jeralt was the one who Rhea gifted her crest (seiros) to, extending his lifespan. Rhea then cut out baby Byleth's heart and then replaced it with Sothis's crest stone hoping that Sothis would posses byleth. All we know of the mom is that she was a nun and died young. Flames crest stone joined to Byleth's heart (CF ending cutscene). Rhea placed Sothis' heart in baby Byleth to revive Sothis (VW ch 22 opener). She has done human experimentation on people to revive Sothis before (implication). Seiros/Rhea did so so that Sothis would posses the body (Rhea dialog consistently referring to Byleth as "Mother" or hoping that Sothis will poke through).
The only time Claude’s anger breaks through his composure is with Rhea. This is significant as Claude almost never loses his composure, and this highlights how Rhea in the only person Claude hates. Claude doesn’t hate Edelgard or Dimitri or any of the other people that may kill him, just Rhea.
question about the Black Eagles/Crimson Flower ending:  why does Byleth collapse and then Sothis' crest stone break? I mean I will give it a break since its symbolic and thematically significant and all and it was a excellent touch that Sothis' heart and Byleth's heart have literally weaved together. Is reviving Byleth Sothis' last act?? Why did Byleth have to die to begin with though? ... well maybe Byleth didn't die since they didn't have a heartbeat to begin with. So far the writing in 3H has been pretty good though there have been weak spots. I think that CF final scene was put in more because it "felt right" than because it was logical. it fits with edelgard's goals and what the route's been about. its just if you really think about it. It doesn't make sense based on what is already known. I mean crest stones could have other powers but I haven't seen that anywhere else in the game. As for the story as a whole, the main acting forces in the game are Edelgard+Empire, those who slither in the dark, and Rhea+Church. Claude also has his own ambitions, but those 3 are more deeply entwined. Each faction has its own goals and past and a good chunk of the game is figuring out what those are. Its also ironic that GD despite how Claude is not enmeshed in ... that other mess, sheds so much light on the other factions. 
The main theme is probably about Rhea since it plays a lot during Rhea scenes and the church is a central focus of the story.
the "M-metal gear?!?!?!" moment will always be hilarious for me. On par with dollar store Hitler
Why is it Jeralt's voice on the map even after he dies?
God Shattering Star:  How Many Times Do We Have to Teach You This Lesson, Old Man?  
Dawn is a recurring motif in Fire Emblem: Three Houses. “the dawn of a new age” is or such is
Claude, a child loved and lonely
i think blue lions was written first. 1 the two monthly missions that have to do with students’ families are both in BL (Ashe and Sylvain). 2 two fairly important side characters at the monastery are related to BL students (Annette and Mercedes). Chapter 3 actually provides a intro for all the lords in their respective routes. Edelgard’s scene is serious but not especially sad, instead you can feel te fire burning within Edlegard and the scene shows how she’s willing to sacrifice the lives of those under her if she believes she is doing the right thing. Claude’s is actually quite light hearted in tone after the first few lines and it highlights the mystery surrounding him and makes him seem very sketchy. Chapter 3 in Blue Lions though is really sad. Ashe my baby boy. Here there is a sense of tragedy in the post battle scene
oh there is another Claude loses his temper. Its when a bunch of thieves (badly) impersonate Almyrans and Claude is so offended they didn’t put enough effort into the act and that they’re weak.
Major Player Goals
Rhea: revive Mother
Edelgard: take down the Church and crest system
Agartha: vengeance on the Nabateans
Claude: usher in a new age of tolerance and prosperity for humanity
Dimirti: keep afloat???
CHURCH SKETCH AF. Rhea always raised the hair on the back on my neck.  I mean even in ch3 the first real mission. We're being used as a personal assassination squad because Lonato threatens Rhea's power.  and then she's like. This is a public execution to give an example of what happens when you defy the church.  and I was like !!!!!!! let's mentally/emotionally scar a bunch of teenagers into fearing the wrath of the church.  Rhea: prosecutor, defense, jury, judge
I remember ranting about revolution and society in fire emblem games before having played this one, and wow intsys made a game for me
Ignatz and Raphael. I must protect both of them. sweet sweet boys. Raphael has the biggest heart and Ignatz just wants to help. Team Protect Raphael's Heart. Raphs is pretty emotionally mature too. he gives warm fuzzy vibes. Ignatz takes on so many burdens and clams up about his own pain. He doesn't place any importance on himself. Let my boy be an artist! Raphael certainly has pain, but he doesn't want a life where that pain rules over all else. Raphael is a force of GOOD I would have love to meet Lorenz's dad. I don't have high expectations of him, but I'm curious.  we've heard so many different things about him. And he's one of the major actors of the story. But we also know so little about him.
o both Mercedes and Emile have the Lamine crest. If that came from their shared mother, why did House Martritz fall since she was heir? Possible answer sexism or finances. The other option is that both Bartels and Martritz have the Lamine bloodline. Also, Jeritza is younger than I thought he was Modern Advances in Missile System Engineering Wade and Kruger 7e 2XXX
Schöner, Alexa, and ZaiCheng Jun.  "Applications of Dymanic Systems Theory in Autonomous Bipedal Assault Units". Journal of Robotics 18.4 (2XXX): 157-170.
I think I'm hilarious. heh. Imagine though, While digging around Shambhala Claude finds these and everyone is just confused because it looks like their language???? and yet the words! they dont make sense!
I didn’t really care when hubert died in VW, but edelgard's death hit me you know. Because both claude and edelgards ambitions are to tear down the old system. and seeing edelgard in that armor. Its like the timeskip all over again. Part 2 begins and you relize how much all the characters have grown. And while you werent looking edelgard has been going through her own journey. When you fight her shes wearing armor with elements from both the flame emperor and her part 2 outfit  yeah edelgard is yikes. i agree with her goals but her disregard for yhe lives under her concerns me. And between her tendency to brute force solutions, those who slither in the dark, and the empires situation, I think she was doomed to fail from the start
When Claude ... half jokes??? that Hilda can grasp his throat, is that connected to how Fodlan's Locket (in Fodlan's Throat) is under house Goneril control?
7 notes · View notes
bae-leth · 5 years
Text
His Marianne
Because I’m an uncontrollable monster to my baby Ashe I cannot stop getting angst ideas to torture this child. So here it is: what if he lost Marianne in Gronder?
He couldn’t bear the sight that now presented itself in front of him: his Marianne, in her holy knight armor, pierced by an enemy lance and now bleeding uncontrollably. Ashe attempted to stop it but a gentle hand landed on his face. He turned to look at Marianne who bore a bloody smile across her face.
“It’s okay Ashe...”
“No... No it’s not okay Marianne! We were supposed to survive this battle! We were supposed to turn the war - win it! We were going to go back to Gaspard and live happy... have children even... I can’t do that without you Marianne! Please!”
Marianne looked over to her esteemed horse Dorte and motioned for him to come closer and whispered something in his ear. Dorte neighed before moving to Ashe’s side. Marianne once again looked to Ashe and placed her hand on his that was still applying pressure.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise... about being there for you...” Marianne was now tearing up like Ashe. “You may not have me here... but I’ll be watching you. Just like Lonato and Christophe...” Ashe froze as he heard those names. “I love you Ashe...”
Marianne breathed her last breath and closed her eyes, landing her hands on Ashe’s once more.
Ashe couldn’t hear anything. Everything was blurry and distorted. He could barely notice the panic in Dorte as enemies seemed to be coming at him in slow motion. He was flashing back into that day in Magdred Way where he was too weak after taking Lonato’s life.
“Weak! Weak! Weak! WEAK!” was all that went into his mind in the moment.
In a flash, his vision was clear, every noise around him clear as day, and an urge to kill the incoming enemies and especially the one that had thrown the spear that killed his Marianne. He climbed upon Dorte who graciously accepted him and now rode off with intense speed. Bow and axe in hand, he sliced through enemies that came within his path, ignoring Byleth’s orders. Arrows were shot with intense speeds that the enemy was now dropping like flies.
He then saw his target: a Pegasus knight whose face was clear. Dorte launched him into the air as Ashe took aim at the unsuspecting lancer. The arrow flew and hit the Pegasus dead through the skull, letting the rider fall. He moved with haste as he then drew out his axe. He got to position and swung his axe at the rider midair, slicing them almost clean through. He didn’t stop there however. He continued slicing the poor rider up, letting his impulse take over and take revenge.
His allies nearby being Catherine, Petra and Mercedes took notice of his fury and watched in horror as it went down. The pure boy Ashe that was so eager for everything, was now something akin to their Broken Dimitri: ravenous, Blood-thirsty, and no sense of guilt for killing.
Ashe kept slicing until the rider was unrecognizable to anyone. He climbed atop Dorte and now was rushing to go after those that were now fleeing from the horrendous sight. One body fell after another, and eventually it seemed that he had racked up the most kills within the battle. As victory was claimed, and was signaled through the field, Ashe stepped down from Dorte, looked to the sky, and let his tears fall for his Marianne.
Back to the monestary that night, Ashe snuck out of his room. He didn’t know it at first but his feet led him to where his mind thought it appropriate to go: the cathedral. He took a seat in the front row sulked as he realized where he was.
“This is where it happened... Where she made her promise...”
His mind flashed back to that day 5 years ago. Back to the day where he sulked and mourned over having to kill Lonato himself and Marianne being his comfort.
“Funny how time works...”
He realized that he was reliving the past almost exactly. However, there was no one there for him this time. He was alone. He got up from his seat and stood center and as close to the goddess statue as he could and began.
“Hi Christophe, Lonato... I know it’s been a while since I’ve last talked to you. I just wanted to say that... I’m sorry... I’m sorry I couldn’t stop either of you from being killed... I know it’s way too late for it but... I’m sorry for being so weak!”
Footsteps quietly made their way into the Cathedral as Ashe confessed.
“I’m sorry that I was too weak to save either of you from death! I’m sorry I couldn’t stop the execution... for letting that arrow go... for not even being able to save someone even now with all that I’ve done... I’m so sorry for letting you die Marianne! Please... please forgive me!”
“Ashe...?”
“Marianne?” Ashe perked up at the new voice, hoping the days events were all but a dream. He turned only to see Catherine and Dimitri standing a distance from him. He turned back out of not wanting them to see his face.
“Ashe, you don’t have to hide your sorrows you know...” Catherine said as she put a hand to his shoulder with Dimitri doing the same.
Ashe turned around to face them both with his head down and eyes puffy. They both embraced him in a warm hug as he let his tears once again fall in someone’s arms.
“I hate it you know... having to see people I love go and get killed... I hate it so much...”
“I know your feeling all too well Ashe...” Dimitri spoke. “I saw what you did on the battlefield. Had I not woken up to reality I would have commended you for your actions... But please understand Ashe: I know you want to go and follow the path of revenge. I know it may seem like the simplest way to go to go and end the lives of your enemies until the voices stop. But when that happens, you stray further from what makes you human... what makes you who you are Ashe... Marianne wouldn’t have wanted you to be a monster that she feared Maurice would become...”
Ashe looked up to Dimitri and looked as though he were about to punch him, but quickly turned to more tears and him nestling his face in his armored chest.
“Why don’t we head to the cemetery? We’ve already buried Marianne but, we wanted to wait for you until we could place the flowers on her grave...” Catherine suggested. Ashe couldn’t speak and only nodded yes and she then led him to her grave.
When they arrived they saw that there was already a crowd. It consisted of the Blue Lions, the Serios Knights, Petra, Caspar, Linhardt, Ignatz and Lysithea. They all held a flower in their hands that Ashe became well accustomed too: the Lily of the Valley. Byleth had approached him and gave him a bouquet of said flowers and spoke.
“We thought it’d be polite for you to place them first.” He said.
Ashe nodded and place it on the center where her heart would be. Everyone else followed and placed their flowers beside the bouquet. They all said their prayers before heading out to their dormitories. Dimitri motioned for Catherine and Byleth to go and rest, leaving only him and Ashe alone by the grave. Dimitri stayed beside him for when he wanted to leave, but soon saw Ashe wished to stay by the grave. He respected his wishes and covered him with his large fur cape before heading off to bed himself.
Ashe remained by Marianne for some time until the moon and stars were clearly visible. These nights when he and Marianne would do late night praying they’d look to the stars and gaze, enjoying each other. Now when he looked to the sky, he felt sorrow over not being able to do that again. He closed his eyes for a second before opening them back up and looking down to a sudden figure in his face.
“GHOST!”
Ashe scurried back to the wall and on closer inspection, froze as he saw who it was.
It was Marianne.
She giggled a little before speaking up.
“That reminds me of the first time we truly became friends, remember?”
Ashe knee fully well what she was talking about. That night where he lost his key, got scared by Marianne, and found Marianne to be quite cute with her head up. Ashe was delighted at the sight of her face, but quickly turned into sadness.
“What... Why are you here... Are you here to haunt me for letting you die...?”
“No, I’m here to tell you this...” Marianne grabbed his chin and faced him to her and kissed him. Marianne felt warm as though she were truly real, as though a lance never gutted her. “I love you Ashe. Nothing will change this. None of us would ever need your apology for what you weren’t able to control.”
“Us...?”
“Me, Christophe, and Lonato. We’re all watching you Ashe. We want you to be happy. We want you to live for us. But please, never think you caused our deaths.” Marianne began to walk away before Ashe tried to grab her, only for his hand to go through.
“Wait!” She froze and turned back to him “I never got to say this to you back then but, I love you Marianne. I wish I could’ve been able to spend my life with you... with all of you. I could propose... Ask Lonato for his blessing... Have Christophe help me pick a ring... I wish I could’ve done all that... But, I love you all. I love you all...”
Marianne kissed him once more before he fell back to the wall and soon lost consciousness, barely enough to see Marianne turn and walk to the skies.
Dimitri found him the next morning slumped on the same wall, covered in his cape, and crying in his sleep. He gently shook Ashe awake to get him for breakfast. Ashe awoke and looked to Dimitri.
“Are you okay Ashe?” Dimitri gave him a concerned look at the tears running down his face.
“Oh, yes. Yes I am, thank you Dimitri.”
“Then may I ask why you’re crying?”
“Oh these, these are just...” Ashe have a small smile away from Dimitri that he barely caught. “I’ve just found my closure is all.” He looked to Dimitri with a wide smile on his face and tears still running down. He didn’t need an explaination. He knew exactly what he meant.
“Well come now, otherwise Caspar is going to eat your breakfast.” Dimitri helped him up and led him to the dining hall.
Ashe couldn’t help but catch as the wind blew away petals from the Valley Lillies into the sky.
--------------
notes from bae: BWUBWUBWUWE IM SO SAD?? BUT ALSO THE ENDING IS BITTERSWEET AND HOPEFUL SO IM NOT TOO SAD BUT I!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHY MARIANNE....
9 notes · View notes
scarletgardensrpg · 4 years
Photo
Tumblr media
UNDEAD ♦ TWENTY-FIVE ♦ THE ASCENDANCY
PETER SÉJOUR is an Undead member of the Ascendancy, best known as the "Doctor"—a euphemistic title used to describe his role as the Ascendancy's rotbeest exterminator. Originally a Yellow Jacket spy tasked with infiltrating the Moulin Rouge to tail Kisara, Peter, after reuniting with his brother Dimitri, chose to renege to the Ascendancy two years ago. Resurrected by Neeve in Côte d'Ivoire, Peter exhibits the classic characteristics of all her creations: startling grace and beauty, the uncanny ability to pass off as a living person, and a resistance to the destructive side effects of PM-GRNT. As a result, Peter is entrusted by Nikolaas to not only regulate drug use among Undead members, but to additionally "take care of" those who have descended into madness and reverted back into rotbeesten.
BIOGRAPHY
Cecile had curled her mouth at the sight of him: pale with infection, shivering in the dark earth, all loveliness vanished in the wake of rot and filth. At her side, stood the slender, fox-faced Blue, who, almost pityingly, turned away—as if to spare him the humiliation of being observed in such a state. At last, Cecile turned away, too, tugging sharply at the cord of rope, coiled around her delicate wrist at one end and collared around Dimitri’s neck at the other. Peter would remember this moment forever: he carried it with him into death, into madness-tinged revival, into resurrection under Neeve’s steady hand. The rain. The cold. The hurt. And those words, spoken from Cecile's mouth like an iron brand upon his chest: Come, Dimitri. Laissez-le.
- ❀ -
Abidjan was a city of extremes: the cerulean port of Côte d'Ivoire, one half a pristine metropolis of commercial avenues and gleaming skyscrapers; the other half a dogged slum, steeped in sour fumes and dead grass. He would be born into the latter half, one forgotten child among countless others, and he would know only this for years and years: grime and squalor, bottomless hunger, violet-dark nights of restless fear. To live was to survive, and to survive was to kill that which made you soft. And he was soft. Or, at least, he looked it: an Adonis of unrivaled, striking beauty, soft-lipped and jewel-eyed, who never quite filled out like the other boys—but instead, remained limber and lean throughout his youth. Had his circumstances been different, Peter would have enjoyed the attention. In Abidjan, it marked him out and made him look weak. How to show that he wasn’t? He would split his knuckles on a dozen noses to prove it, use his teeth and nails like any feral urchin, and come out of every fight hoping the bruises on his face would leave permanent scars. Eventually, he found his other half. The younger boy, already so saturated with bitter arrogance, so unrestrained and self-impressed, had made his first words to Peter a taunt—Es-tu une fille?—and they’d tussled over bread, or a necklace, or something else inconsequential—until the punches began to glance, and they began to laugh. These were the better years: when there had been someone to share the vicious days and violent nights with, someone to bleed with. Dimitri's harsh beauty rivaled his own—but where Peter had stripped his away in hateful resentment for the way it made him into a target, Dimitri twisted his own into a weapon of violence. He could make any ruinous act of barbery look sublime. He could dress in only hunger and lack, yet make those things look like regal ornaments upon an emperor's robe. It disturbed Peter, and it intrigued him. 
Peter et Dimitri, Dimitri et Peter. They would wind through ashen streets, hand in unlovable hand, just as two famished cubs of the savannah might prowl together, hunting joyously for something to sink their teeth into. Dimitri made survival into a sport; something to indulge and luxuriate in, reckless in his conviction that each day they were alive was cause for the grandest of celebrations—and the gravest of risks. Peter, who built armored layer after armored layer over himself, and long ago was made frigid and austere by the treacheries of the city—he had never been able to rejoice in the chaos, as Dimitri so often did. You will get us both killed, Peter snarled. But it was hard to be angry with Dimitri, who only ever smirked, cheshirely and dark: Perhaps, but I am getting us to live first. In the end, they were both right. The days were sated and tranquil; the nights wild and remarkable. But at the end of the world, his brother had been the one to get them into trouble with the rotbeest—and in provoking such a terrible creature, sealed them both to the fate of death. You could not brawl with beasts the way you brawled with people. In the gladiator arena of nature, humans would lose, everytime. Dimitri died first, caught in its jaws, made mad by its bite, himself transformed into hell incarnate—and then Peter, who, at the very end, could not bring himself after all to kill the one thing which brought happiness to his life, not even the worser shadow of him. It was almost laughable—Peter, so heartless, so merciless, so graceless—bore all three yet. Blue did not want him for this very reason, looking hungrily instead to Dimitri, imploring Cecile to save him, and leave Peter to die. And died he did.  
So it would be Neeve who found him instead: a curse of separation, a blessing of resurrection nonetheless. She was the sun-skinned Queen of Eden, whose gaze never once left Peter’s while Kazimir cleaned blood and soil off of his damaged body, and who returned to him his resplendent beauty one hundred fold, feeding him the ambrosia of her own flesh and blood. It makes you powerful, she’d say afterwards, tracing a finger along the fine arch of his brow, the straight slope of his nose—along every rivulet of his face, which had afforded him bitter troubles from birth to death. Neeve was gentler than others, but for the first time, Peter thought a glint of something hungry and divine shined in her eyes, watching her watch him. Mourn not for your fearsome brother. I have made you in my image. That is a tremendous gift. He had not believed her, nor fully understood what she meant. But then—when the Undead began to tremble before him, when he learned to wield his grace like a knife to the throat—yes, he understood her, then. Neeve had put him excruciatingly close to the living—a proximity which granted him a rare peace, an ethereal loveliness, and a coveted clarity of mind. He could remember every detail of his past: memories he would have once discarded in disgust, but now held onto like a drowning man. Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri. I’ll be screaming through the afterlife. I’ll be hunting for you, buried under flowers. The House would rear him into a weapon: a guileful liar and spy, cold of perfect gaze and void of heart. It was who he was supposed to be, anyway—but where the other Undead soldiers were weaned on dosage after dosage of PM-GRNT 197, which persuaded them into a numb, sightless loyalty—Peter remained largely unafflicted. Another gift, though one he suspected Neeve had not intentionally meant to give him. Nevertheless: it was this gift which had allowed him to find Dimitri at last—and before he could change his mind, follow him.
CONNECTIONS
DIMITRI – THE RUINS. Prenez quelques conseils. Nobody likes a know-it-all, Peter used to advise, and it was not advice at all—rather, a pricky, sullen complain. Dimitri, damn him, would only ever flash that sunny smile, indulgent and endlessly pleased with himself. Mais—you do. And what could Peter say to that? Only that it was true, and he did not like Dimitri, but rather loved him: fiercely and without pretension, just as all brothers ought to. They were not blood, but in those days, there had been plenty of it around to seal their bond anyways: mouthfuls of it for each time they were caught and beaten; stained bandages and stinging, scraped knees for each time they weren’t. Life was hard in Abidjan, but Peter could always stomach it. Dimitri had made it stomachable. It was foolish of Peter to have thought they would both come away from death unscathed—and though Peter was indeed remade gently in Neeve’s radiant image, the same cannot be said for his brother, who, in being raised on Cecile’s manic ire, bears those very same traits, injurious and hateful. Peter, who came down from the heights of Heaven to sit in Hell with Dimitri instead, will not be so quick to give up. Dimitri, cleaved cleanly from his side by the detestable hound-girl, Blue, looks unseeingly upon Peter now and sees nothing worth his attention. As if I don’t know the shape of your soul, brother. As if you don’t know mine. He may treat Peter as coldly as he’d like—but Peter is sure the memories will return. 
ZELDA – THE ANGEL. The gardener Zelda, who is gentle and ungentle in peculiar turns, produces the very poisons which, though unappealing to him, have seduced a pack of beasts into exhibiting incredible, almost frightening, reverence for her. If the seeds she doles out are the Undead’s religion, she herself is a Priestess of the Underworld. Indeed, they stand on opposite sides of the Ascendancy—she is beloved and protected; he is loathed and feared. And yet, in unexpected ways, he shares a striking kinship with her, and finds solace of a different kind in her orchard of blood and fruit. Perhaps it has to do with the way they both answer to turncoat, to traitor, to apostate—and perhaps it has to do with the graceful contours of their face and bodies, their rosy complexion, the manner with which they move through the world—that is, with thoughtless ease, as if they were made of water and wind. In the eyes of the Ascendancy, Zelda thrums with coveted, unobtainable life—and Peter, of all the Undead, sits closest to the realm of the living.
NEEVE & OKSANA – THE DEATH-GODDESS, THE WINTER-CAT. It is because of Neeve that Peter stands so starkly apart from nearly all other Undead: for those belonging to Julian are beholden to his every word like heartless soldiers, and those who answer to Cecile find themselves burdened with bloodlust. In some ways, this makes him extraordinarily lucky—and in other ways, this closeness to something he’ll never again be wounds him beyond words. Just as Sasha is Julian’s greatest joy and fiercest pride, so too had he and Oksana once been the lovely Neeve’s: her most perfect creations, molded so closely in the image of the living that they could almost taste it. Peter does not regret turning his back on the House, but he cannot deny that he misses the two of them. Neeve is, naturally, heartbroken that he has left—but whereas her grief is simple, Oksana’s is far more complex. He and Oksana are no saints, of course, and have never claimed to be—but there was a promise made at some point that they, for all their trainings in deception and con, would never lie to one another. Peter, then, in plunging a knife in her back has done something unforgivable. In the wake of his betrayal, Oksana has since descended beyond some high precipice of gracelessness, having now grown into a feral, wounded creature. He had not planned on ever crossing paths with her again, but Neeve has sent Oksana to not only finish what he failed to two years ago on his mission, but to collect him, as well.
OPEN ♦ FC: DUDLEY O'SHAUGHNESSY
0 notes